Radio Midnight
by wentworth360
Summary: Something Different ...
1. Chapter 1

Radio Midnight

"Meme Zero"

A Meme is "an idea or thought that spreads from person to person within a culture. It behaves like a virus that moves through a population, taking hold in each person it infects. In effect it's a thought virus."

Imagine how a video becomes a viral video and you'll have some idea what a meme is, only instead of someone singing a shitty song or a guy getting hit in the nuts, it's a thought or idea. Each hit means another person had been exposed to that viral thought or idea and spreads it's reach further and further. It mutates and evolves in random and unpredictable ways. All the while it continues to spread.

* * *

Gotham Suburbs –One-Month Ago

A security camera slowly scans a shopping plaza parking lot. Cars and trucks drive in and out of frame. The sound of a radio being tuned is heard over the security camera. A station is finally chosen and the news comes on. It could be any local station as the drive time DJ goes into his spiel.

"_...It's 10:30 AM, here on the Big One. The weather is brought to you by Traynor Investments, where every investor is special to us. Scanning out 75 miles, the Big One's duel Doppler radar shows nothing but clear skies. It's going to be a mild day today. The highs will be in the low sixties this afternoon, falling into the forties tonight. The five-day forecast looks like more of the same. Turning to the news headlines here on the Big One. Locally, the city school board took up the question of open enrollment last night..."_

On the security camera, a rental truck drives into the frame and pulls up right in front of Wal-Mart. The truck sits there, as the camera pans on over the rest of the shopping center. As the camera makes it's way slowly back towards the front entrance of Wal-Mart, the truck is still there. As the truck centers in the frame, a huge explosion vaporizes the truck, filling the frame. Shock waves from the massive explosion take a few seconds to reach the security camera. The camera is jarred and battered and then goes black. The voice of the radio announcer continues.

"_...And the Harding boys team won a close one 57 to 53 over Taft. Stay tuned to the Big One for all your news and weather at the top and bottom of every hour. Now back to our regular programming here in the Big One!"_

* * *

Twenty Minutes Later

The noise is overwhelming. Fire and police sirens, car alarms mix with the shouts and screams of the people. Fire engulfs the front of the store and spreads to several cars. Smoke billows from the scene. People are running everywhere. Chaos. Smaller explosions go off every few seconds. The camera slowly pulls out and focuses on a female reporter, who is visibly shaken by what she is seeing.

"This is Nancy Monroe reporting for Gotham's Action News 7. We're on the scene of a disaster. Information is hard to come by, but from what I've been able to gather, some sort of explosion occurred just a short time ago."

Another explosion goes off and she ducks, before remembering she's on camera.

"It's like something out of a nightmare out here! People are screaming and running everywhere. Fire trucks, ambulances and police flooded the scene but even they seemed overwhelmed by the scale of this."

A policeman comes running up to her. There's a haggard and frightened look on his face.

"You're too close! Get back!"

He hustles Nancy further away from the scene, as the camera continues to roll. Off screen, Nancy continues to try and finish the update.

"We're being asked to move, as this catastrophe is far from under control. We'll update the situation as soon as we get more information. This is Nancy Monroe for Gotham's Action News 7."

The camera wavers and then shakes as another car blows up.

* * *

Gotham – Midnight - 2 months ago

A commercial for something called an Herbal Body Cleanser ends and there is a short moment of silence. Tool's 'Faaip de Oiad' begins and slowly builds. Just as it reaches the end the sound of a microphone being turned on is heard followed by a cigarette being lit. Exhaling, the voice starts to talk to the radio audience.

"It's the witching hour once again, my sad and lonelies …. You know who you are. Radio Midnight is back on the air and the lines are open. Got a story? Got a tale to tell? Don't be afraid we're all friends here."

Another drag on the cigarette can be heard.

"I wanted to start the show tonight with something that been in the Ether, that people are talking about, but isn't getting any play in the mainstream media. The Cutter tapes are what people are calling them. Now I've heard all the denials from the man himself and I'll take him at his word, but the tapes are out there. Most want to dismiss them, but I think they had a message that needs to be heard. A message that you better beware that things aren't what they seem. The rumblings are just faint echoes right now, but something is bubbling up from the underground. We all feel it, don't we? That discontent that's so hard to put a finger on, but we feel it like fingertips brushing against the ends of our hair."

There's a pause and the sound of the announcer inhaling from his cigarette can be heard.

"Call it what you will, a tipping point or a event horizon, it doesn't matter, we're at the edge of a cliff we can't see for the lemmings in front of us. I don't want to get caught up in who made these recordings as that's really beside the point. The message is what matters. I think it's the canary in a coalmine. So over the next few nights I want to start the show with bits and pieces that I've found and that have been forwarded to me. I don't know if they are chronologically in order and again it doesn't matter. I'm offering it up to you raw and unedited. It's for you to decided what it all means."

A crackle and hiss can be heard, as the audio isn't the best quality. It seems to weave in and out of focus until a voice begins to speak.

"… _Something's wrong. Maybe it's always been wrong, but it's just closer to the surface now so we can see it. I don't have any answers. I wish I did. I wish I knew what to do or say to change things, but it seems like nothing ever changes things. People rise up to protest how things are and what happens? It gets twisted all out of shape. Occupy becomes occupy the North Pole to sell Kia cars. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."_

Pops and cracks are heard and then the voice fades back in.

"… _Once you wake up, it's impossible to go back to sleep. The truth is right in front of us. They're rubbing our noses in it, cause they know we won't or can't do anything about it. The world is not what they show us on TV. The world is a violent, sex and drug fueled wasteland where the ignorant are the majority. That's what they are counting on, that in your fear and ignorance you won't see what they are doing. They offer you 100 different kinds of coffee, but no real choice about your freedom. One by one they strip away our rights, tipping the balance away from us until all the power is in the hands of a few. They shuffle the deck chairs around ever few years, but it's all just window dressing. It's the illusion of change that …"_

The words fade, as the sounds of a fan and music drift in. There is a sharp pop on the tape, as if a severe cut has been made and then the voice fades back in.

"…_.Violence? When we revolt, it's not for a particular culture. We revolt simply because, for many reasons, we can no longer breathe. I can't breathe and I can't go back to sleep. I can't be free, not now, not ever. Maybe I just need to make a statement, a gesture, and a demonstration that says I was here and I know the truth. But what is the question? What would get everyone's attention? What would shock others into waking up? I told you before, I don't have the answers, but at least I can do something, something that tells everyone …"_

The tape breaks up and the Host turns down the sound. He hits his mike and comes back on the air.

"So there is it, one man's cry in the wilderness. Is he just another crank or is he trying to say something important? Let me know what you think. We'll take your calls after these commercials.' This is Radio Midnight.

* * *

Sri Lanka – One Year Ago

Jack Cutter sat alone on a beach. There were tears in his eyes. He held the last of the new tablets he'd picked up in India in his lap. He'd been filling them with what amounted to his rambling for the last three days. He had one last message to record and he would be finished.

"I miss you so much, Eleanor."

He pressed stop on the tablet's recorder and then set it aside. He'd been running for the last month but they always found him. What had started just a way to pay off the huge medical bills had turned into a nightmare. They had taken everything away from him that matter and turned his life into a non-stop reality show that never ended. They weren't going to let him walk away; there was too much money involved now. He'd signed a contract.

But this wasn't living, he thought. Nothing was real anymore, everything was recorded and package for the consumer. The cheap sunglasses he'd bought for pennies would be sold everywhere in a matter of days just like everything else he touched now. Reality and illusion had merged and he couldn't tell them apart anymore. When he met a woman and was attracted to her, he found himself asking was she real or had the company hired her to help with his brand?

The very sensations of living all had to be questioned now. He had finally come to the conclusion there was really nothing he could do. It was the nature of this new world that everything was fodder for the consumer machine. Protest was pointless, as it would be turned into just another way to sell something. Politicians were useless. They were sold nowadays like any other product line. Slick packaging and focus groups presented them as the consumer wanted. Ideas and speeches were all tested long before they were given. Linus Kincaid had been right, it was a Brand ™ New World.

It just wasn't one Cutter cared to live in anymore.

He knew they would be coming for him. There was nowhere left to run. He also knew they would want the one thing that was still his own, his memories. They would use them to sell more products, but he wasn't going to allow that to happen. Some things have to remain yours or you stop existing as a human being. A plan had been formulating in his mind for months and now it was time to put it into action.

He saw the large yacht pull around the edge of the cove and knew time was running short. The moon shone so bright he could see the Fifth World logo on the side of the boat. It was one in the morning. He signaled to one of the locals and then handed the last of the tablets to him. The man thanked him and then disappeared. It would run of a month and Cutter's words would spread out over the Internet. He'd purposely sent them through multiple channels and streams, so they would be impossible to stop. He'd also sent a complete copy to someone he trusted. It wasn't much, but it was something.

If nothing else, his voice and words would be out there as a warning. Hopefully someone would listen. He got to his feet as he watched a smaller boat descend from the yacht. In Cutter's waistband was a loaded 45, from his time in the military. He took it out and raised it to the side of his head. He could hear the men on the boat screaming at him, but he paid them no mind.

"I love you Eleanor,' he whispered and then pulled the trigger.

* * *

Brussels – 3 years ago

David Palmer checked into the Hotel on 38 boulevard de Waterloo. It was formerly the Hilton Brussels. His company was a subcontractor of the Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) a British intelligence agency and he was here to discuss security issues with the EU's security experts. He was jet lagged and as he tipped the bellman his only thoughts was of getting some sleep. Carrying his bag into the bedroom, he set it down and began to strip. He would sleep in his underwear, too tired to unpack. He kicked off his shoes and then let his suit coat slipped down his arms. Unbuttoning his dress shirt, he tossed it at the foot of the bed and then undid his belt. His pants had just hit the floor when she spoke.

"The classic white tee shirt and briefs, how predictable you are, David."

With a little gasp of surprise he jumped back and nearly tripped over his pants.

"Who the hell are you?" He demanded. Sitting in the darkness of his bedroom was a young woman, a rather attractive young woman.

"That's not important, David,' she replied. "You don't mind if I call you David do you? I mean I've seen you in your underwear so this should be less formal."

"How did you get into my room? Who are you?"

She leaned forward out of the shadows and gestured for him to lower his voice. She was Asian; perhaps Chinese but there was also a hint of European about her features along with something else he couldn't pinpoint.

"Please, you don't want to disturb the other guests, David,' she replied. "If it will ease your mind, you may call me Simone. As I said earlier though it doesn't matter who I am. What matters is I know who you are."

Simone pulled a pistol out and slowly began to attach a silencer. David gasped again and started for the door.

"David, if you try to run, I'll kneecap you,' Simone informed him. "I understand it's very, very painful."

David stopped and turned back to her.

"What do you want?" He nervously asked.

"Me? Nothing,' she replied.

"Why are you in my room with a gun? What is this about, um, ah, Simone is it? "

"Yes,' she said with a smile. "This is about you being an informant, David. You've been leaking classified information to the press."

"That's ridiculous!"

She had finished attaching the silencer and gave him a look, a slight tilt of her head and a sad smile, before she pointed the gun at him.

"David, do you really want to stand there with your pants around your ankles and try and deny it?" She asked. "If these are your last moments, you should try and have a little more dignity."

"My-My last moments?" He repeated. "What do you mean? Are you going to kill me? Please, there's been some mistake! I never did anything, I swear!"

Again Simone gestured for him to lower his voice.

"David, you're lying,' she said patiently.

"Please, don't kill me,' he begged. "I have a wife! A family!"

"I don't care,' Simone replied, her voice lacking emotion.

"You can't do this! Someone will hear, the police will be all over this place!" David said frantically. "You'll get caught and go to jail!"

"Lower your voice, David, I won't tell you again."

Simone pointed the gun at David's kneecap.

'All right, I'm sorry, but please don't kill me." He begged.

"David, you've been leaking classified information,' Simone said. "Did you really think there wouldn't be any consequences?"

"I didn't, I swear!"

"Yes, you did, David. We both know you did so there's really no point in denying it now. Did you think people in the government wouldn't notice? Really?"

"Are you saying you work for the government, Simone?' He asked. 'The intelligence branches are strictly forbidden from targeting a citizen for this. Your superiors should know this and know what the consequences are,' David offered, hoping he could talk her out of killing him.

"The people that hire me aren't with the government, David, at least not at any part you or the public know about,' Simone informed him. "They're very off book if you will."

David could see it was pointless to lie anymore, so he tried the truth.

"What I did I had to do,' he began. "The programs are illegal and the public has a right to know about it! It's not right, Simone."

"I'm sure everything you're saying it true, but as I said earlier, I don't care,' Simone replied. "This is what they hire me to do and I like doing it. I could lecture you on how you should have known, but I'm not. Frankly none of that interests me very much."

"Please don't kill me, Simone, please!" He begged, falling to his knees.

Simone just looked at him with a vague detachment, as if there was really nothing he could say or do that would make the slightest difference. Suddenly she smiled.

"I read about you David,' Simone said. "You had a minor in English college."

"Yes?"

"Do you know the story, The Lady or the Tiger?"

"N-No."

"It goes something like this,' Simone said. "The "semi-barbaric" king of an ancient land uses a unique form of trial by ordeal for those in his realm accused of crimes significant enough to interest him. The man is placed alone in an arena before two curtain-draped doors, as hordes of the king's subjects look on from the stands. Behind one door is a woman appropriate to the accused's station and approved for him by the king; behind the other is a fierce and nearly starved tiger. The accused then must choose a door. If by luck or, if one prefers, the will of heaven he picks the door with the woman behind it, he is declared innocent and set free, but he is required to marry the woman on the spot, regardless of his wishes or his marital status. If he picks the door with the tiger behind it, the hungry beast immediately pounces upon him-his guilt thus manifest, supposedly."

"I-I don't understand?' David managed to reply.

"I'm going to give you the same chance, David,' Simone informed him. 'I can shoot you right here, right now or you can jump out that window."

"What?"

"Two doors, if you will,' Simone continued. "The window and you jumping out of it is the lady in this case. I'm the tiger behind the other door. Pick, David"

"But-But we're on the 10th floor! It's suicide!"

"Maybe, maybe not,' Simone countered. "You might be able to land in the pool down below. You'll probably break a few bones if you do, but you'll be free. I'll leave and you'll never see me again."

"I can't leap out the window! Please Simone!"

"Then it's the tiger,' she replied. "I shoot you in the stomach several times and then watch you bleed out on the floor. It's a horrible way to die, believe me; I've seen it before. It's your choice, David, the lady or the tiger?"

David glanced frantically at the window and then back at Simone.

"I'll give you till the count of three,' she said as she raised the gun and pointed it at David. "One, Two, Three!"

Not knowing what else to do and in a panic, David chose the window.

Simone rose from her seat and walked over to the broken window and looked out just in time to see David land with a sickening thud on the cement below. Slowly she began to unscrew the silencer from her gun. Screams and sirens could be heard on ground level.

"This hotel doesn't have a pool, David,' Simone said with a smile to no one in particular.

* * *

Gotham – 11 months ago

Bruce Wayne sat at a table sipping his water and then checked his watch. He was here for a meeting with one Linus Kincaid, the wunderkind behind one of the fastest growing companies in the world, Fifth World. Much like Mark Zuckerberg, Steve Jobs and Bill Gates before him, Linus Kincaid had started a business in college and then dropped out once it took off. What he had figured out how to do better than just about anyone before him was branding. Using advanced computer data mining, statistics and theoretical mathematics he had turned 'cool hunting' from a marketing strategy into a new business paradigm.

Linus Kincaid's greatest success was finding Jack Cutter and creating a brand around him, Cutter 21. That brand and its logo adorned everything from clothing to computers, but always a very small, control number, which drove up their price and exclusivity. It was always on the bleeding edge of the next big thing and by the time others caught up it had already moved on. It would be as if Apple sold the next I-Phone for only one day and didn't announce which day ahead of time.

The main factor of the allure of the brand was Cutter. His Q rating and favorability numbers were off the charts with every demo. His metrics were off the charts. It was a fluke, Bruce believed, but somehow Cutter seemed to connect with people. His story seemed to resonant. Born into modest means, he put himself through college earning a degree in computer science, then enlisted in the military to serve his country and finally returning to marry his college sweetheart. It had turned bittersweet at that point, as he as a widower now. Bruce had met him briefly at some charity function and had liked him almost immediately. A more reluctant star and worldwide spokesman you weren't likely to find, but perhaps that was another part of his appeal.

Today Bruce would meet the wizard behind the curtain that was Cutter 21. The meeting had been at Linus Kincaid's request and Bruce found himself intrigued over what he wanted. Kincaid certainly didn't need investors, so that left a whole host of options for meeting's purpose. Bruce took another sip of his water and glanced towards the entrance. He saw the man in question enter. Kincaid spoke to the maitre de for a moment and then started straight for Bruce's table with a big smile on his face. He was wearing an earpiece and some sort of glasses. His head moved on a swivel as if he were taking everything in as he moved through the tables.

Bruce took the measure of the man as he walked towards him. Kincaid was probably in his late twenties, average height and perhaps twenty pounds too heavy for his frame. On a slightly younger man you might have called it baby fat, but on Kincaid it just made him look heavy and sloppy in his clothes. He was wearing a tan suit that looked like quality, but hadn't been cut right for his body. A satchel was slung over his shoulder as if he had come straight from the airport. He had an out of breath quality that you usually see in those that don't exercise much and he was sweating. His smile was too big and didn't reach his eyes, which tended to give him a predatory look rather than a friendly one. Bruce's first impression was to not trust or like him.

All these things went through his head as he slowly stood and smiled at Kincaid.

"Mr. Wayne, so good to meet you,' Kincaid said, offering his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Kincaid,' Bruce replied, shaking the hand.

"Please, call me Linus."

As they sat down, the waiter appeared to take their order. He was just about to read the specials of the day, but Kincaid cut him off.

"I'll have a triple espresso and whatever Mr. Wayne is ordering, so I don't need a menu. Oh, and bring some bread or rolls back with the espresso, I didn't get a chance to eat on the plane."

Bruce gave his order and the waiter quietly bowed and moved away. Kincaid was still looking at everything. Up close, Bruce could see the eyeglasses had some sort of miniaturized camera attached. Kincaid saw him notice and with a smile slipped them off. He left the earpiece in.

"Research,' he offered. 'Whenever I go to some place new, I like to be connected to our main computer. The glasses send a real time video feed to it for analyze and categorize. Our A.I. Oz is one of the most advanced in the world and can handle an astonishing amount of data.'

"I take it the earpiece keeps you in constant contact with it?" Bruce asked.

"Yes."

The waiter came back with the espresso and a selection of bread. He set them down and moved away. Kincaid dove into the bread immediately.

"I was a little surprised that you wanted to have a meeting with me,' Bruce began. "Our fields of business don't really overlap."

"That depends on your point of view,' Kincaid said, chewing and taking a sip of the espresso.

Bruce steepled his hands on the table in front of him and looked at Kincaid.

"How so?"

Kincaid was already reaching for a second piece of bread. He paused and shrugged.

"You make money and I make money,' he replied. "Isn't that was business is all about?"

"I suppose,' Bruce admitted.

"Of course it is, Bruce. You don't mind me calling you Bruce do you?" Kincaid said, but didn't wait for an answer. "Anyway, Bruce the reason for this meeting is my company is interested in a partnership with you."

"A partnership? Aren't you primarily in retail?" Bruce asked. "I'm not sure I see where Wayne Enterprises fits into that."

"Wayne Enterprises? Oh, no, no, you misunderstand." Kincaid replied. "Wayne Enterprises has no real interest for us. The partnership we're interested is with you, Bruce Wayne."

"Me?"

"Yes, we want you to be our next brand," Kincaid said.

"A brand? You're serious? What are we talking about like your Cutter 21 brand, that sort of thing?"

"In most respects, yes,' Kincaid offered. "Cutter is a unique situation, but he's far from our only brand, Bruce. We'd like to add you to our stable."

"Why?"

"Because we've done some studies and you fit a niche we're looking into for expansion,' Kincaid explained. "You come from old money, have the right looks and the playboy reputation is a plus. That suit you have on for example, Savile Row isn't it? Very traditional, old school, upper crust, W magazine and all that, very good numbers on someone like you."

Bruce glanced down at his suit for a moment and then at Kincaid. While he had been ready for many things from this meeting, this was not one of them.

"You want to sell me?" Bruce said, the incredulity plain in his voice.

"Don't get that Brahmin nose out of joint, Bruce," Kincaid said with a smug laugh. "I know how you Patrician types can be so touchy, but this is a straight business deal I'm talking about."

Bruce found his first impression of Kincaid being reinforced. He didn't like the man.

"I don't think I'm interested in being a billboard for you, Mr. Kincaid,' he said.

Kincaid polished off another piece of bread and slapped his hands together before taking a deep slurp of the espresso. He glanced at Bruce and pointed his finger in his face. When he finished chewing he continued.

"You already are a billboard, Bruce."

"Excuse me?"

"I'll talk slower so you can understand,' Kincaid replied. "Before you get all pissy about it, it's not just you; it's everyone in this snooty place. In fact it's just about everyone pretty much everywhere in the developed world. Just for a moment think about what you're wearing. Is there an article of clothing on your body that doesn't have some company's logo or named stitched on it? I'm not talking about the obvious stuff like a Corona t-shirt, but all your clothes. That very expensive suit you have on, there's a tag on the inside isn't there? That nice crispy Oxford shirt has a tag in the collar, right? Your power tie, turn it over and there is the tag or more specifically the advertisement."

"I suppose,' Bruce admitted.

"It does, trust me,' Kincaid continued. "Jeans have the company name written right on the ass, shoes have it on the side and bottom, the list goes on and on, we're all walking billboards for companies. You walk out and get in your fancy car and what's on the back of it? The company's name and the model are right there, free advertisement for them. You already paid a lot of money for that car, but you're still advertising it and not getting paid. Your own company, Bruce, everything they ship out, you smear your corporate logo all over, don't you?"

"That's just packaging."

"No,' Kincaid corrected him. "That's advertising and branding. Someone got you to pay money for their product and then got you to willingly advertise it for them for free."

"And your point?" Bruce asked.

"The world is changed, Bruce,' Kincaid said. "Much more than most people realize. You run a multinational conglomerate that made billions last year. Your company is involved in heavy industry, aerospace, electronics and a hundred other things. My company is a multinational conglomerate too and we made billions last year as well. We make nothing, no factories or expensive machinery, yet one of our brands is probably better known than yours worldwide."

"I suppose Cutter 21 is well known, but that just means there is more than one business model,' Bruce replied. "I still have no interested in being a brand."

The waiter brought their food, so they were silent for a moment. Bruce thanked him as Kincaid started to salt and pepper the dish. He ordered another triple espresso and then the waiter left them to their meals. Kincaid took one bite and the nodded to Bruce.

"Not bad."

"Their chef is very good here."

"I never doubted it, that's the sort of thing that makes us want you,' Kincaid replied.

Bruce didn't say anything, but started to eat his lunch. Kincaid dug in eating rapidly. He was almost halfway finished when the waiter returned with his espresso. He set his fork down and took another slurp of the espresso while looking at Bruce.

"Let me give you my pitch, Bruce,' Kincaid asked. "I'm told I'm a very good salesman and I usually get what I want."

"Well, there is always a first time for disappointment,' Bruce replied.

"Maybe, but try and focus on what I'm telling you,' Kincaid dismissively commented. "This is the postmodern world and most people don't even know it. Hell the modern world is relatively new, barely two hundred years since the industrial revolution. Now I'm only talking about the developed part of it, but this shift had been colossal. Before modernization things had been the same way pretty much since the dawn of time. Do you know why white bread is so popular now?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"No? Well it's because before the industrial revolution and mass production it was the most expensive. You had to bleach the flour, so only the rich could really afford it. Look at preindustrial paintings and you see the same thing. What were the ideals of beauty back then? For the most part they were those very pale, Rubenesque women. Most people can't understand why big white pie wagons like that were thought of as the standard of beauty, but when you consider the time it all makes sense. White or pale skin meant you weren't out schlepping in the fields like the common folk. The darker the tan the more you were considered a peasant. Same for the weight, poor folks back then were thin cause they had to struggle to grow their food. The rich and the aristocrats were the only one's that could afford to be big and fat. It was a status symbol."

Kincaid paused to take another bite of the food.

"The whole paradigm shifted with the coming of the modern age. Being big, fat and pale changed to being thought of as a poor thing. You probably worked in a factory and eat a lot of cheap, high calorie food. The modern age turned old assumptions on their head. A consumer culture sprang up and business had to find ways to create demand. Society's basic needs have been taken care of, so companies had to find another way of selling things. Enter a man named Edward Bernays. He was Freud's nephew and used many of his uncle's theories to become the father of public relations. He taught companies how to tap into the consumers secret desires to get them to buy more products. The man was a genius."

"I'm familiar with Mr. Bernays and his work,' Bruce offered. "Not everyone is quite so enamored with it as you are."

"Oh, please, Bruce, 80% of the people believe in angels,' Kincaid said dismissively. '50% of that same group couldn't identify the Pacific Ocean on a map. No one every went broke underestimating the intelligence of the consumer."

"You seem to have a rather dim view of people, Mr. Kincaid.' Bruce pointed out.

"Not at all,' Kincaid objected. "I'm a realist. The truth is that people are like most things. You have your top ten % and your bottom ten %, while the rest are somewhere in the middle. Bernays genius was in making those in the middle believe they were special and deserved to be treated special. We all have a healthy ego for the most part, Bruce. We're all the center of our own universes. Bernays tapped into that to sell products."

"Products yes, not people,' Bruce pointed out.

"People are products Bruce,' Kincaid replied, finishing his lunch. "The ones that understand this are the ones making money."

Bruce was about to object, but Kincaid waved him off.

"I said before the world has changed and I was serious about that, Bruce,' Kincaid explained. "The industrial revolution and the modern age are barely two hundred years old. That's a blip on the radar in history. Most people are still trying to catch up, but for many they still have an almost pre-Newtonian mindset. They believe that tornadoes are God's way of punishing us. They believe borders drawn on a map less than one hundred years ago are written in stone. Then there are those people like your parents and you that have embraced the modern world to some degree. You're not adverse to technology and understand it's a global marketplace now, but you're still tied to the way things have been done in the past. The future is the only thing that matters, Bruce. Sears built up a business over many years by providing good quality products at reasonable prices, but look at where Sears is today. It's in the shitter. No one gives a damn that the stores haven't really changed or the products are just as reliable and reasonably priced; Sears has gone out of style. Perception has become the reality."

"If it's all about perception why couldn't I do for myself what you're proposing?' Bruce asked.

"You could,' Kincaid admitted. "I never claimed to be the only one doing this; I'm just the best at it. Forty years ago Ralph Lifstitz from the Bronx decided he wanted to sell clothing so he changed his name to Ralph Lauren and created Polo. No one was going to buy hip, cool clothes from someone named Ralph Lifshitz so he invented this new image, this new brand for himself and his company. My company has just taken that to the next step."

"Ralph Lauren actually makes something, Mr. Kincaid,' Bruce pointed out.

"Right, sure he does,' Kincaid said with a laugh. "There's a factory in Sri Lanka or Nicaragua making khakis that sews his logo on them. Walk a block away and you can get the same khakis with a different name. Hell, for a few bucks they'll sew your name on them. Ralph Lauren is selling an image, an idea, and a fantasy of gorgeous, young rich people summering in the Hamptons. No one is buying that from Ralph Lifshitz no matter how nice his clothes are. They're buying an idea that if they wear Ralph Lauren maybe they can be on of those beautiful people too. It's all pure fantasy. Let me show you what my company makes."

Kincaid reached down into his satchel and pulled out what looked like a small tablet. He pressed a few icons and then handed it to Bruce. It weighed next to nothing and looked like a pane of glass. On the screen scrolled stock prices. Bruce looked up at Kincaid.

"Those are real time quotes,' Kincaid pointed out. "If you look at your own stock you'll see it has gained twenty points just since we started this meeting. Apparently it got out somehow and the value of your company has just gained by a rather sizable margin. I bought some of your stock this morning and just sold it. I've made twenty two million dollars in just a few hours, Bruce. That's what we make."

"So you leaked this meeting to manipulate the stock price,' Bruce replied.

Kincaid laughed and shook his head.

"New world, Bruce, I keep telling you. I didn't have to."

Kincaid reached over and touched another icon and a Facebook page came up. It had a picture of Bruce and Kincaid sitting in the restaurant on it. From the angle, Bruce turned and noticed a young woman glancing their way.

"She wanted all her 'friends' to know she was having lunch in the same restaurant as the famous Bruce Wayne,' Kincaid said. "She didn't know who I was, but someone that saw that picture did. Privacy is a thing of the past, Bruce. Our computer or A.I. Oz scans everything but I'm sure we're not the only one. I wouldn't be too hard on her. Facebook, Twitter, they're just marking tools. Think about who has the most followers and ask yourself what they could possibly have to say that is relevant except what their new project or product is."

Bruce glanced at the Facebook page again and saw the young woman had almost 2,500 friends, so any one of them could have forwarded the picture. He didn't believe that and suspected it was Kincaid, but he did see the possibilities. As much as Bruce found he disliked Linus Kincaid, he was also the head of a corporation and had to consider all business ventures if he would strengthen that corporation.

"Let's just say for the sake of argument, I agreed. How would it work?' He asked. "Are you going to want someone going through my closets or following me when I buy something?"

Kincaid laughed again.

"New world, remember, Bruce?' Kincaid said. "Not counting the cameras on phones like the young lady over there, we're five blocks from your office, how many cameras do you think you'd pass if you walked back?"

"How many?' Bruce actually knew the answer was 47, but wanted to see just how good Kincaid's information was.

"47, but if you add in every cell phone it would have to be thousands."

Bruce understood this much better than Linus Kincaid realized. Keeping a secret identity in the modern age was that much more difficult because of technology.

"You know who else loves cameras, Bruce?" Kincaid asked and then answered his own question. "Businesses and governments, they really love cameras. More cameras are going up everyday. Soon you won't be able to go anywhere without a camera seeing you. All in the name of security, by the way."

"So you tap into the cameras, is that it?"

"Partly,' Kincaid replied. "Look, I can't give you all our trade secrets until you sign a contract with us, but yes there will be a lose of some privacy. You're already giving it up to a degree now; we'll just help you make a profit off it. We have the first campaign for you already in mind. Classy, trust me, very dignified as would be the image. We show pictures of your family tree, finishing with your Parents when they opened Wayne Tower. It will all be done in muted tones like an Ansel Adams photo. Then as if the film gets caught in the projector it begins to burn around the edges and then two gunshots are heard and a scream. Everything bursts into flames and then we start with a picture of you as a small boy and it morphs into the man you are today. Bruce Wayne, the Gotham collection is the tag line for now."

Bruce had to will himself not to loose his temper. More than anything he wanted to reach across the table and backhand Kincaid for even suggesting that he exploit his most personal memory for profit. Staying almost eerily calm, Bruce just stared into Kincaid's eyes. His fingers gripped the arm of his chair so hard, he was afraid it would shatter.

"No."

"Now don't be rash and make snap judgments, Bruce, think about it for awhile,' Kincaid said. "We're talking a fortune here."

"No, I've already given it more thought then it deserves and the answer is no,' Bruce replied.

"Oh, come on, if you don't like that pitch we can come up with another one,' Kincaid protested, not wanting to let it go. "It won't have the same impact but we can work something out."

"Again, no, and that's my final answer,' Bruce said evenly and held out the tablet. Kincaid looked at him and could see this was over. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up.

"Keep the tablet, it's disposable,' Kincaid said. "We're rolling them out tomorrow all over the world. A brilliant young man in India came up with the idea. Using cloud tech, he was able to create a disposable tablet that will run for one month. It's a composite, lucid so it won't break. We bought the first 100 thousand and will be sold out by the end of the week. You can keep that one as a thank you for at least listening."

Bruce glanced at the tablet and saw the familiar Cutter 21 logo etched into the top right corner.

"Another find for your man Cutter I take it?' Bruce asked.

"Yes, his last,' Kincaid replied and then corrected himself. "I mean his latest."

This caught Bruce's attention.

"Where is Cutter by the way? I haven't seen any reports on him for what? A month?" Bruce queried.

"He's on vacation," Kincaid replied too quickly. As he stood he continued. 'It's sort of a tie in with our new campaign, Cutter's vacation."

There was something he wasn't telling, Bruce thought, so he pushed just a little harder.

"You were very lucky to find someone like him, Kincaid. Your business sort of depends on him, doesn't it? That must worry you, I would imagine,' Bruce said. "What if something happens to the man? What if he was in a car accident and was laid up. What would you do?"

Kincaid seemed uncomfortable with this line of questions, but quickly regained his footing.

"Elvis made more money last year then he did in his entire career, Bruce,' Kincaid replied. "The business model has already been established so don't over estimate Cutter and his value. Perhaps we'd just change the title of our campaign to Cutter's permanent vacation."

"I didn't even mention about him dying, Kincaid," Bruce pointed out. "Are you sure he's on vacation? Where is he vacationing at, by the way?"

"That's private, I'm sure you understand,' Kincaid snapped. "Again, good-bye. If you reconsider, call me, Bruce. It's really a Brand New World and you should jump on board while you can."

With that Kincaid picked up his satchel and put on his eyeglasses and was heading for the door. Bruce watched him the whole way out.

Kincaid tapped the earpiece and began to whisper to the A.I. Oz on the other end.

"I thought I had him but no go."

An emotionless voice like the one of a G.P.S. replied.

"It was the privacy issue that seemed to turn him off. The mention of his parents caused his facial muscles to tighten."

"It was a calculated risk,' Kincaid replied. "I wanted to get it out of the way at the start so we didn't have to face another Cutter situation. Cutter, that stupid bastard, this is all his fault."

"What do you want to do now?"

"I didn't get where I am by simply accepting a no from some rich playboy,' Kincaid snarled. "We'll proceed with all options, even the radical ones."

"As you wish,' the voice said. "Could you please glance to your right at that young woman just entering?"

Kincaid did.

"Retro Coco Chanel, circa 1961, very interesting,' the voice commented.

* * *

Mazatlan – Mexico – Now

Beads of sweat rolled down the dirty window of the old hotel bathroom. An ancient ceiling fan struggled to stir the humid; blisteringly hot air but had little success. There were two mirrors, one over the old porcelain sink and a full length one on the back of the door. Both were covered in condensation like a hot shower had been running all day. Faded, pale green walls stretched up to a white ceiling and down to green and white tile floor. In the center of the room was one of those old claw footed bathtubs and it was filled nearly to the top with melting ice. A fly buzzed around the sink drain. It was the only other sound in the room besides the thump-thump-thump of the ceiling fan.

Suddenly the stillness was broke with a gasp and then trashing. Water and ice spilled out of the tub onto the floor as a young woman frantically scrambled to breath. Her eyes were open wide in shock and confusion. Cold, a bone numbing cold permeated her entire being. Her eyes moved rapidly but nothing looked familiar. Desperately she flayed and then flopped over the side of the tub onto the tile floor. She landed hard with a grunt, but then dragged herself to the nearest wall. Shivering as if she would never be warm again, she looked around, but had no idea where she was or how she got here.

Glancing down she saw she was wearing a non-descript soaked thin brown dress that clung to her slender body. Her wrists and ankles were bandaged. One of the bandages around her wrist had come undone in the ice and water. She moved her trembling fingers to unwrap it. Three vertical cuts were on the inside of her wrist but each missed the vein. A wet lock of hair fell into her face and as she brushed it away, she felt a bandage on her neck. Trying to control the panic that threatened to overwhelm her, she moved her shaky fingers around her neck until she felt three more vertical cuts where her neck met her shoulders.

The wet cold was too much and she managed to reach up and grab the towels off the rod and try to dry herself off. The panic was setting in, as she couldn't seem to remember anything. Shaking all over she spied the mirror and slid along the tile towards it. Wiping the mist off with her tiny hand the face that appeared was one she didn't recognize. A stranger looked back at her. She tried to put a name to the face, but nothing came. She watched as the shaking got worse, the realization that she had no memories hit her like a punch to the gut. Who-who am I, she thought?

As if a switch had been turned on inside her head, memories suddenly came flooding forth. The confusion only increased as the memories were fragmented and seemed to be from two different people. Both sets had an overwhelming sadness about them, but one was more disjointed and chaotic, while the others seemed to be only parts of memories, but these were dark, violent memories. What made it all the more bewildering was the memories didn't match up with the face looking back at her in the mirror. They were the memories of two men.

Pressing her fingers against the glass she tried to concentrate and remember her name. It hurt to concentrate, but she pushed passed it wanting a name, her name. When one finally came it wasn't what she was expecting. She stared at her quivering, chapped lips in the mirror as they pronounced the name in her memories.

"Bruce Wayne."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Gotham – One A.M.

A man sits alone in a radio booth waiting for a cue that he's on the air. The show is called Radio Midnight and it's syndicated in 32 markets besides Gotham. The host started out in the heady days of AM radio in the early seventies. Stations were scrambling to find something that could compete with FM and stereo music. Talk shows were just beginning to make an appearance as a format. There were no rules back then and he thought of himself as the voice of the people. He believed he spoke for those that didn't have a voice.

Times and the man had changed. Huge corporations moved into radio, buying up as many local channels as they could. The friendly morning crew you listen to on the way to work was no longer in the same town or even state as you were. They were broadcast all over the country. Clever cut-ins gave the illusion they were local, but it was just an illusion.

The man suffered the same fate. His station, one of the last independent clear channel stations, had seen better days. His show once was the voice of the people, but now had degenerated into a sad copy of Art Bell. Once syndicated on over 150 channels all over the country, his show had steadily lost affiliates as the giant conglomerates took over the industry. He spends his nights discussing offbeat topics like the paranormal, the occult, UFOs, proto-science and pseudo-science with the lonely hearts that called in.

That had changed recently.

The bombing in the Gotham suburbs was the top story on local and national news. No one had taken responsibility or given a motive for the violent act. People were already talking about terrorists and another attack. The red light went on and he opened his mike, just as he had a thousand times before.

Radio Midnight was on the air. As has been his custom for the last few weeks and months, the host, Midnight, opened the show with a clip from what was being called the Cutter tapes. The deviation in the format should have hurt ratings, but surprisingly had the opposite effect. All the phone lines were blinking, as callers stood by. They were different than his usual fair, but the regulars still called in. Midnight took a drag on his cigarette as the latest piece of tape played.

"… _They drug us to normalize our behavior and make humans behave more predictably, like machines.__I'm not a machine; I'm not a number. Where do you turn? If you're not part of the consumer culture, a little automaton slaving away for that new car or bigger house or the latest gadget that promises to make everything better, where do you turn? What do you do when all the stuff, all the logos, brands and products don't fill that hole in your life? Where to you turn? …"_

The tape breaks up, but then comes back into focus.

"… _Religion? More promises that if you only do these set things, you'll finally be rewarded. You'll be free. They market it nowadays just like a brand of toothpaste. It's televised and choreographed like some reality show that never ends. They are all selling the same thing supposedly, love, but only if you have their armband, the right armband on. The symbols on the armbands, a cross, a star, and a crescent, it really makes no difference, cause they are used to separate us, yet the roads supposedly all lead to the same place. Suicide bombers are always young and poor. Their heads are filled with promises, only those promises are never in this world, never in the here and now…."_

The voice faded, as it is obvious this is a copy of a copy. Other sounds mix in and then drift away as the voice comes into focus.

"… _Positive and Negative Liberty, those are the two choices we're told. What's being push at us these days is Negative Liberty, cause the classic examples of Positive Liberty, the French Revolution, Soviet Russia or Pol Pot's Cambodia, all end in tyranny. Negative Liberty is safe we're told. What is it? The right to do what you want to do, that's it, a world without meaning…"_

Pops and crackles obscure the voice, as in the background other sounds can be heard. The voice fades back in.

"… _It's a false choice. Negative Liberty categorizes us as simple, selfish robots and offers a dumbed down, limited version of freedom. It's the freedom to be a consumer, to buy whatever toaster you want. It's the freedom of the shopping mall where everyone has an equal right to buy things. What's the alternative? Positive Liberty, the scary dangerous form of revolution, but it's just another blind alley. Positive Liberty seeks to not only transform the world, but the people, as well. So again, we people are too stupid to know what real freedom is and leaders must tell us what it is. The message is we are too stupid in both cases. One is promising 100 different kinds of soap or toilet paper, while the other is saying only the vanguard have the one true answer. Anytime someone tells you they have the one ultimate answer, tyranny is bound to follow. Cause if you know the one ultimate truth, what sacrifice is too much for it? ..."_

The host flicks his microphone open.

"So that's a little more of it. I know what I think, but I want to hear what you've got to say. Let's take another call. Jim for Gotham, welcome, what's on your mind?"

"First time caller, Midnight."

"Welcome."

"Thanks, but the reason I'm calling is to ask you if maybe playing those tapes isn't irresponsible? I mean the police are saying they think whoever is responsible for the tapes was the guy that blew up that shopping plaza the other day and killed twenty-five people. Aren't you sort of glorifying a murderer?"

Midnight takes a long drag on his cigarette before replying.

"Good question, Jim and a valid one,' Midnights offers. "I've been wrestling with the same question, frankly. I've tried to make my views as clear as possible that I totally condemn what happened. It's senseless violence and has no place in civilized society"

"Then why are you playing his stuff?"

"You didn't let me finish, Jim,' the host said. "As I said I condemn it, but I also want to understand it. I know there was a body found in the wreckage, but it was unidentifiable so we still don't know who it is. That leaves us only what we think are the words that might have inspired him. We don't know if he is the person that made the tapes or if there is any connection between the Cutter tapes and the explosion at the shopping center."

"Sometimes things are just evil,' the caller replied. "Take the Nazis, for example…"

"No, Jim, let's not go there." The host cuts him off. "That's too easy. I think the Nazis are overused and are a cliché at this point. Not everything is relatable to the Nazis. Let's stick to the Cutter tapes and the explosion.'

"Okay, but he's one lone nut, what's to figure out?"

"Why, Jim, that's the question, why?"

* * *

Gotham – The Batcave

Bruce Wayne sits in front of his computer; all the camera angles of the plaza explosion are up on the screen. Meticulously he goes over each one again and again. He slows them down, advancing them frame-by-frame looking for something, anything that points to the identity of the bomber. In the background the radio is on. The show playing is Radio Midnight.

* * *

New York – 10 years ago

The conference had been set up to bring young, upstart entrepreneurs and venture capitalists together. It was in fact a trade show or a jobs fair, just that the products, ideas and jobs where all theoretical and hadn't hit the market yet or perhaps never would. For every Steve Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg there were countless others who's ideas hadn't been funded and who's names were soon forgotten.

Linus Kincaid was 21, ruthlessly ambitious and had just dropped out of Harvard to pursue his vision. He could be cold and calculating, caring little for anyone or anything other than himself and his own desires. Like all the rest of those upstarts he had been given 20 minutes to make his presentation. While the money people took a brief hiatus for dinner, Linus and the others had set up demonstrations of their product or idea. That was a problem, as Linus had no actual product to demonstrate for potential investors. His was an idea; a concept that he believed would revolutionize the business model. He sat glumly as most of the prospective investors walked right on by him, ignoring him as they move to look at the latest copy of some other idea.

Idiots, he thought, they were all idiots and it was demeaning that he had to go hat in hand to people that couldn't understand or recognize his genius. Pearls before swine, that's what this whole conference was from his point of view. He wasn't going to sit here any longer he decided. Linus began packing up the small assortment of visual aids he'd brought to try and explain what he was doing. Fuck them, they wouldn't know a brilliant idea if you put in from of them on a silver platter with a sign in lights that said 'brilliant idea'.

"Your presentation was poor."

He stopped when he heard this and looked up. Standing in front of him was an older man leaning on a cane and smiling. His age was hard to pin down, it could be anywhere from 60 to 80. His tailored Palm Beach suit was impeccable. Linus was about to offer a nasty reply when the words died on his lips. Standing next to the older man was perhaps one of the most beautiful young women Linus had ever seen. Dressed in all black, her hat had a delicate, gossamer veil attached that extended down almost to her full, sensual lips. It did nothing to diminish her beauty. She had an exotic look that was hard to place; perhaps Chinese or Asian, yet something else had been added into the mix. Her conservative, elegant suit fit her perfectly. She had the figure of a model, with all the right curves in all the right places.

"Wh-What?' Linus finally managed to say.

"Your presentation was poor,' the older man repeated.

"You sweat profusely." The younger woman said. "And rushing it didn't help you cause either."

Her voice was sultry. The sort of voice you'd want to read an erotic novel to you or better yet whisper it in your ear.

"I-I only had 20 minutes.' Linus justified.

"20 minute or 2 hours it wouldn't have mattered,' the older man replied, still smiling. "They didn't see it. You didn't make them see it."

"It's their loss,' Linus snapped, remembering the frustration that had been building inside of him all day. He moved back to continue packing up his stuff.

"Yes it is." The young woman offered.

"I'm Julian Grinka and this lovely young lady is my daughter, Mrs. Simone Bisset,' the older man said as he offered his hand.

"Linus Kincaid."

Linus shook hands and turned toward Simone. She didn't offer her hand and just looked at his as for a moment as it hung in the air between them.

"You'll have to excuse my daughter, she's in mourning,' the Julian offered. "Her husband passed away recently, such a sad tragic accident."

"My sympathies,' Linus said to her.

"Thank you,' Simone replied. "Unfortunately these things happen. One must carry on."

Linus had the feeling her words could be taken more than one way and the emotions behind them seemed a mystery to him. Simone opened her small handbag and took out a cigarette, Dunhill Top Leaf. A smooth platinum lighter followed. Linus watched all of this.

"There's no smoking,' he informed her.

Simone just smiled momentarily and the lit her cigarette. Linus glanced around, nervous about security and felt beads of sweat begin to break out on his forehead. The noise of the crowd seemed to invade and only made the silence more uncomfortable.

"Which brings us to your booth, Mr. Kincaid,' Julian said, bringing them back to the present situation. He glanced around at the other displaces and the investors milling about to make sure they weren't being eavesdropped on. "Sell us on your idea."

"What? You mean right here? Now?" Linus questioned.

"Yes. Now." Simone flatly replied.

"I believe you are a salesman, Mr. Kincaid,' Julian said. "I have an eye for these things. Your presentation gave glimpses of something interesting, but you didn't fill out the picture."

"My late husband was rather wealthy, Mr. Kincaid,' Simone added. A slow column of smoke twisted from her full, sensual lips. She gave him just the hint of a tempting smile. "Julian and I are looking for investments. Perhaps you could be one of those."

"Sell us, Mr. Kincaid,' Julian repeated.

Linus looked at the two of them and they stood expectantly waiting for him to begin. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted the money; their money and he needed their money, her money. He took a deep breath and began.

"The world has changed,' Kincaid said. "This is the postmodern world and most people don't even know it. Hell the modern world is relatively new, barely two hundred years since the industrial revolution. Now I'm only talking about the developed part of it, but this shift had been colossal…."

* * *

Gotham – 10 A.M. – One month ago

Bruce Wayne sat in his office in Wayne Tower going over the latest reports. There was a board meeting in about twenty minutes. His mind was distracted over several things. He was no closer to finding out what was done to him and if his memories were somehow stolen. How that would be possible, he still not sure. It's a violation of his deepest self. He wasn't going to let it go. He thought he has a good idea who was behind it, but always reminded him not to jump to conclusions. A detective had to keep an open mind to all possibilities, or he stopped functioning at his best.

The bombing outside of Gotham troubled him. From everything he'd been able to piece together it was an isolated incident. One person for whatever reason felt they needed to take that horrible step. It happens more frequently then he'd like, but it's the reality of the modern world.

Those tapes, the Cutter tapes, bothered him. He'd seen the denial from Cutter, but something about that was wrong. The man didn't move the way he remembered the Cutter he'd met moved. The other part that still bothered him was he couldn't locate the source. Because they had been bouncing around the web for who knows how long, it was virtual impossible to trace them back to a single place. It is like an echo chamber. Bits and pieces show up in Singapore or Italy, but those have been forwarded from Russia and so on and so on. He couldn't be sure where the original recordings were done.

Then there was the message itself. More pieces had surfaced in the last months. It seems to be some sort of rambling manifesto or call to arms, yet who was the audience for it? The references, John Nash, Game theory, Positive and Negative Liberty, quotes from Frantz Fanon, weren't your ordinary touchstones. It seemed like a call for revolution, yet to whom? To Bruce's ordered mind it was too scattershot, too random in the jumps made. It seemed as if the message on the tapes was something very personal to whoever made them, but without finding the source it was almost impossible to decipher the meaning behind them.

Bruce hadn't jumped to the conclusion that everyone else had that the tapes and the explosion were somehow linked. The body hadn't been identified. Whoever it was, he was still in the truck when it exploded. The bits and pieces recovered weren't enough to make a positive match with any database, including his. There are still too many loose ends on all of it and Bruce hated loose ends. There was a knock on his door and then his secretary popped her head inside.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Wayne, but the board is waiting for you."

"Thank you, Sheila,' he replied with a warm smile.

The young woman blushed and then quietly closed the door. Bruce gathers his things and heads out of his office.

Midnight took another drag on his cigarette and punched up another caller.

"Dave on the Southside what's on your mind?"

"First time, long time, Midnight. Great show, man, just great show."

"Thank you, so what's you comment?"

"I've been listening to all of this and it's great, but I been wondering about some of the things said on the tapes,' Dave replied. "It's a tragedy, just a tragedy what he did, but I've been trying to figure out what he was trying to say on the tapes, you know? I don't get what he means with the whole game theory part of it, do you?"

"I think I might, Dave,' the host offered. "Did you see that movie, A Beautiful Mind?"

"Yeah. That Jennifer Connelly is smoking hot!"

"Yes, she is. Okay, that's based on John Nash's life,' the host explained. "His ideas were important in the Cold War, where he developed something called Game Theory. He was working for the Rand Corporation, trying to make statistical models for what the Soviets were going to do. It's all very high-end math, Dave."

"Okay."

"So anyway, Nash invented a system of games that reflecting his beliefs about human behavior, including one he called "F*** Your Buddy", which was later published as "So Long Sucker".

"Wow, that sounds harsh."

"It was,' the Midnight replied. "In the game the only way to win was to betray your playing partner. Probably the most famous example of the game is one called the Prisoner's Dilemma. It's basic game there and goes something like; the police arrest two suspects. The police have insufficient evidence for a conviction, and, having separated the prisoners, visit each of them to offer the same deal. If one testifies for the prosecution against the other (_defects_) and the other remains silent (_cooperates_), the defector goes free and the silent accomplice receives the full 10-year sentence. If both remain silent, both prisoners are sentenced to only six months in jail for a minor charge. If each betrays the other, each receives a five-year sentence. Each prisoner must choose to betray the other or to remain silent. Each one is assured that the other would not know about the betrayal before the end of the investigation. How should the prisoners act?"

"Rat out the other guy,' Dave ventured.

"That's what Nash believed. He thought the only way to win was to betray your playing partner. These games were internally coherent and worked correctly as long as the players obeyed the ground rules that they should behave selfishly and try to outwit their opponents, but when RAND's analysts tried the games on their own secretaries, they instead chose not to betray each other, but to cooperate every time. This did not, in the eyes of the analysts, discredit the models, but instead proved that the secretaries were unfit subjects."

"That sounds crazy."

"It gets better, Dave,' Midnight replied. "What was not known at the time was that Nash was suffering from paranoid schizophrenia, and, as a result, was deeply suspicious of everyone around him—including his colleagues—and was convinced that many were involved in conspiracies against him. It was this mistaken belief that led to his view of people as a whole that formed the basis for his theories. In fact even after it was found out, they never rethought the basic idea."

"So they were working off an idea from a crazy guy?"

"Yeah, Dave, that's pretty much how it happened,' Midnight said. "Game theory then spread to psychiatry, business, economics and created a very that society could be mathematically modeled. The idea became that people could be modeled as equations. People were thought of as sort of intelligent robots and their behavior could be predicted. Soon this mathematically modeled society is run on data—performance targets, quotas, statistics."

"Wow, that's some deep sh*t."

"Hey, Dave, remember, we're on the radio here."

"Right, sorry, Midnight, but thanks for the info."

"No problem. Let's take our next call.'

As the host fielded more calls, the scene shifted and we see Bruce in his board meeting. The voice of the callers was heard over the scene.

"Linda, welcome to Radio Midnight, go ahead with your thoughts."

"I-I think the Cutter tapes are trying to tell us something, something important."

"And what do you think that was, Linda?"

The board at Wayne Enterprises go over the notes from the previous meeting. They all open their Wayne Enterprises binder, the logo prominently displayed on the cover.

"Linda?'

"I don't know, I guess sometimes I feel like he was saying, that I'm just a number or something. I working and going to college, but everything is based on a number, you know. I sign in at work with a number. When I check my grades, my name's not there, just part of my social security number. It's like my name, my actual name doesn't matter anymore, I'm just this number they gave me. I don't know, I'm just saying I sort of get what he was saying, is all. It makes me feel uncomfortable."

"Thanks for your opinion, Linda. Next we have a long time caller, Nate. How's it going Nate?"

"As well as can be expected, Midnight."

In the boardroom, the ubiquitous PowerPoint presentation was starting. One of the vice presidents from Wayne Industries began to outline the quarterly returns. In the corner of the screen the company logo was prominently displayed. Productivity was up, while costs are down. He moved to the next slide, which showed the streamlining and cost cutting measures the company had taken and the results.

"So what's your take all on this, Nate?"

"I agree with you last caller, Linda, she should be uncomfortable."

"Why?"

"Cause this is classic false flag stuff, text book. It's a diversion to keep us from seeing the real truth. It's all about that a secret form of energy, called "**Vril**", which is used and controlled by a secret subterranean society of matriarchal socialist utopian superior beings. They've finally hooked up with the shape-shifting alien reptiles that require periodic ingestion of human blood to maintain their human appearance. It was really just a matter of time, Midnight. I mean the Bush family and the British Royal Family are actually such creatures, and Diana, Princess of Wales aware of this, and that's why she was killed."

"So this bombing fits in how, Nate?"

"Isn't it obvious? This wasn't a bomb; it was their new Vril gun being tested! It's their way of warning the Illuminati and the Masons! The key is the numbers, Midnight, it's all about the numbers!"

"Interesting as always Nate,' the host replied. "I think this is a good point to play another new clip from the Tapes. It hasn't been edited, so you're hearing it as it was made.

"… _Marx refers t__o the lumpenproletariat as the "refuse of all classes", including "swindlers, __confidence tricksters__, __brothel-keepers__, __rag-and-bone merchants__, __beggars__, and other flotsam of society. Lumpenproletariat is a __German__ word literally__ meaning, "rag proletariat.__" That's who I feel like, the refuse of all classes …"_

There was more of the pop and hiss that overwhelm the voice. The eerie music crept in., familiar, yet not quite identifiable.

_"… Huey P. Newton said as the ruling circle continue to build their technocracy, more and more of the proletariat will become unemployable, become lumpen, until they have become the popular class, the revolutionary class …"_

The board meeting continued, as projects for the coming months and the status of numerous projects and divisions of the corporation were discussed. Bruce didn't ask many questions, preferring to just listen and take notes for future reference.

Outside on the street, a white electronics company van pulled up in front of Wayne Tower. A young man and woman got out and open the side door. They take what look like tool kits out and then close the door. They seem nervous as they look at each other, but then nod and head inside. Just before they enter, they take each other's hand.

Midnight and the callers continue, as we follow the two inside the building.

"Paul, welcome to the show,' the host said. "What do you think of all this?"

"I think its crap, Midnight, plain and simple. Some nut job blows up a shopping center and all anyone can think of is why. That's what's wrong with this country in my opinion; we've become a nation of whiners. That last clip you played said it perfect; we're a nation of lumps, fat, lazy and dumb, just looking for a handout. We just want to sit on our ass and play video games all day. It used to be you pull yourself up by your own bootstraps and stop complaining. Now everyone wants to bitch and moan and the country's going to hell! That's all I've got to say about it."

"Thanks for your opinion, Paul."

The board meeting was wrapping up. New strategies and projections, goals and targets had been decided on.

In the lobby, the security cameras showed the young man and woman walk up to the desk and say something to one of the official greeters. Part of the décor of the lobby was a few small shops selling merchandise, all very high-end stuff. Security guards could be seen everywhere. The woman pointed towards one of the cameras and the two turned to look at it. They were still holding hands.

Midnight took the next call.

"Joe, what do you have to say?"

"I think the bombing was just the beginning, Midnight. There is more to come."

The man and woman in the lobby of Wayne Towers took off their hats and stared right into the camera. In the background the greeters had alerted security and guards rushed towards the two. They looked at each other and smiled. They open their coveralls and expose the t-shirts they were wearing underneath. There was the classic symbol ©, but it had been crossed out in slashes of red. Ironically the symbol was also the logo for Cutter 21 ©. The two turned towards the camera and both mouth the same phrase.

"I am not a number."

Just as security reached them and takes them to the ground, their hands came apart and a massive explosion followed.

The camera went black.


	3. Chapter 3

'Waterloo Sunset'

Gotham – One month ago

One in the morning had come and gone. A steady rain drifts down through the stillness. Yellow police tape and hastily erected sheets of plastic block off the damaged entrance. The local authorities were done with their investigation, but the Batman wasn't.

Broken glass crunched under his boots, as he sifted through the debris for any clues. Blood was everywhere; the pocked marked floor, and the twisted furniture and even in the air. It mixed so heavily with the lingering cordite from the bomb that he could almost taste it. He gently picked his way among the ruins, haunted by the memory of the screaming and wailing when he'd first rushed onto the scene.

These were his people, Bruce Wayne's people. The death toll was already at twenty-two and had probably risen since his return. He could already envision the aftermath. An endless parade of funerals stretched out in front of him. He felt he owed it to each and every one of them. The handshakes and hugs, the hollow words of sympathy and the endless grief of the love ones, he would be there for all of it. These were his people and he failed them.

He already knew what the others would say, that he's not responsible and that he couldn't have known. They just don't understand. There were his people. Linda from the front desk, she always had a smile for him and a warm hello. Ted, the security guard, they would discuss baseball and the team's chances this year. April, the new intern, so nervous in her interview even though she scored in the top two percent in her class. All the others, each in their own way a part of what made up Wayne Industries. Gone in the blink of an eye. His people.

There was an overwhelming sense of guilt for them, but also for the ones he didn't know. They worked for him and now had given their life for him, yet many he'd never spoken so much as a word to. He would hear their stories now. He would meet the families devastated by what happened today. Lives shattered, ruined forever in his building.

His people.

He hadn't been diligent enough, hadn't taken the extra time to be sure. He'd let himself buy into the popular assumption that the bombing at the suburban shopping center was just some lone nut with a beef against the world that killed himself in the explosion. Even though the Cutter tapes had troubled him, he hadn't looked deeper. He hadn't pinned down who actually died in the bombing. Hadn't made sure there wasn't more to this then a one-time act of mindless violence. His mistake had cost these people their lives. His people.

He knew they were there before he saw them. They were so out of place here, like angels flying too close to the ground. Clark and Diana.

"Bruce, we heard what happened,' Diana said as they landed.

"If there's anything we can do,' Clark offered.

"No." It was automatic, but then he reminded himself they were just trying to help. "Thank you, but no, I'll handle this."

"The League is ready to offer you any assistance you need,' Diana said.

"Thank you, but I'll handle it."

He hadn't looked at them, not wanting them to see how much this was affecting him. The rage and sorrow were swirling inside of him, but he remained outwardly calm. They were good people, but they would never understand. Their world was high above where everything was clean and bright and the future seemed filled with infinity promise. This was his world, dark, cruel, brutal and deadly. It was on the razor's edge of chaos, yet he fought to keep it from falling into the abyss.

"I'll contact you if I need any help," he finally said to them. His voice was softer, but it conveyed that they were done talking. He knew they wanted to say more, but he turned his back on them and continued with his investigation. It was several agonizing moments later they finally flew off.

Perhaps someday he would explain it to them, but not tonight. Tonight was for his people.

* * *

10 months ago – Shenzhen, China

Men and women covered from head to toe in white moved silently across the ferroconcrete floor. Printouts and computer models were constantly being monitor for the slightest fluctuation. This was cutting edge stuff and they wanted to make sure everything went right. The team leader was a tall, older man and he turned towards the large tank that dominated the room. With a nod, the technicians began the process of raising its contents. Tubes and wires sprouted from every side of what looked like a cocoon. It was in actuality a cellulose shell just large enough for one person. Gliding on tracks it slowly rose out of the water and moved to the waiting techs.

They checked all the monitors and when they were satisfied they began to separate the shell. Inside was a man wrapped in a thin membrane of protective linen like some high tech mummy. The lead scientist moved over and checked his vitals again before injecting a stimulant into the last tube. Almost instantaneously the man's eyes opened.

"Mr. Kincaid, welcome back,' the lead scientist said. "The process was a complete success."

"Mirror,' Kincaid managed to say, even as they began unwrapping him.

"Yes, of course."

Two workers rushed over with a small mirror just as the last bandages were removed from Kincaid. He looked at his reflection and smiled. The face staring back at him was an exact duplicate of Jack Cutter.

* * *

Gotham – Five months ago

Alfred walked into the library to find Bruce slumped in a chair. Rushing over, the older man shook him. It took a few moments, but finally Bruce seemed to come out of it. He looked at Alfred with a confused look on his face.

"What happened?" He asked.

"I don't know, Master Bruce, I found you slumped over when I walked in,' Alfred replied.

Bruce sat still for a moment trying to piece together his memories, but found there was a gap. He was out of his seat in the next moment.

"Something happened, Alfred, something that shouldn't have happened and I'm going to get to the bottom of it right now,' Bruce firmly said as he headed to the cave.

* * *

San Diego – 8 Months Ago

Linus Kincaid splashed water on his face rinsing the last of the shaving cream away and then looked up into the 5 by 8 mirror in front of him. It had been two months now but it was still something of a jolt to see Cutter's face staring back at him. It was necessary to stabilize the brand after Cutter had shot himself in the head and put everything at risk. Now the brand would live on.

Linus had in effect taken over the role of Cutter. The surgeons and scientists had transformed him into an exact duplicate from the timber of his voice to the color of his eyes to the small scar just above his third knuckle. The most important element was the face though. It was that odd mixture of sadness and knowing that consumers seemed to be drawn to. As Linus slowly ran his fingers over his new cheek, he tried to see what they saw. Yes, the face was attractive, but hardly handsome. There was a bit of rough masculinity reminiscent of Steve McQueen and stars of his ilk but that only explained so much. He'd read all the research and the most frequent response from the focus groups on Cutter's appeal was the eyes. Something about Cutter's eyes seemed to connect with every demographic. The word most commonly used was haunted. Standing alone in the bathroom gazing in the mirror, Linus didn't see it.

With a shrug, Linus turned and walked out into his living room. It was the penthouse and had a panoramic view of the city and the ocean. He moved over to the treadmill and started his morning exercises. It was one of the annoying prices he had to pay to replace Cutter. He'd dropped thirty pounds and it as a constant struggle to keep it off. He might look exactly like Cutter on the outside, but inside he still had Linus Kincaid's metabolism.

He turned on the huge screen that cover one wall and the A.I. Oz immediately came up. Linus muted the voice while he ran and watched a steady stream of images and numbers. It was information, projections, forecasts and what was trending at the exact second. In the corner of the picture Oz was ever present. Lately the A.I. had become obsessed with having its own face, or the representation of its face. Quietly it constantly shifted features, settling on some for a short time, but then shifting them again. It was like watching one of those old police suspect books in full motion. Eyebrows thinned and then thickened, chins narrowed and then expanded, mouths were thin then full and lush, as Oz tried out ever combination. It seemed Linus's transformation had inspired the A. I. to make one of its own.

The twenty minutes of hell on the treadmill finally came to an end and Linus was soaked with sweat. He grumbled to himself that he would need another shower before going out. He toweled off and went over to his desk and sat down. Only when he was comfortable did he turn on the volume to the A.I.

"Good morning, Linus,' the emotionless voice of the computer said.

"Morning, Oz,' Linus replied. "I see sales have picked up on the Cutter 21 brand. That's a good sign."

"Yes, the board will be pleased."

While Linus Kincaid's company was a privately held it did have a board of directors. He was the largest shareholder, but during the early days money was needed for the rapid expansion of the brands. They all saw their investment multiple a hundred times, so they had no complains.

"So the crisis of Cutter's death has passed."

"But he's not dead, Linus, not technically,' Oz replied.

"Well, yes I've taken over his role in the brand,' Simone said, but the computer interrupted him.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I was referring to his actual body,' Oz said. "The doctors in Japan have been able to keep it alive on machines and believe they can continue for an indefinite period."

"And the chances of him recovering?" Linus asked.

"None,' Oz immediately replied. "But it does postpone some realities. If he's not technically dead, then there is no death certificate and no questions about his death."

"True,' Linus admitted.

"There's also some interesting developments coming from the Black Labs,' Oz informed him. "While they've mastered the process of transferring memories from a healthy host, they believe they can also extract them from Cutter."

"How is that project coming along, by the way?" Linus asked.

"Slowly. It requires more time then the 'taps' if you will, to get a complete memory database of any one subject. It currently gets just bits and pieces, usually the most vivid memories are transferred,' Oz explained. "The scientists have found it a little too jarring for the test subjects to assimilate during the transfer. Brain damage and death in most cases are the final result, but they think they might have a work around for that problem, but it's highly experimental and not strictly legal at this point."

"That never stopped them before,' Linus commented. "Tell them to keep at it. I want that technology. I've eliminated the need for one spokesman for a brand, but I can't do it for the others without that tech."

"They have something in the works that should prove most interesting,' Oz replied. "They theorize that if they layer another set of more stable memories over Cutter's it will allow them to integrate easier and the shock should be reduced."

""Yes, yes, just let me know when it works,' Linus said dismissively. "I saw a report in the stream about the lab in Shenzhen. What are the details?"

"Totally destroyed,' Oz offered. "It seems there was a power surge that cascaded through the whole building."

"Survivors?"

"None."

Linus smiled but made no immediate comment. Shifting in his seat, he began looking through some of the mail that had arrived.

"Well, the Japanese are more advanced in bio-engineering than the rest of the world anyway. Is there anything else I need to know, Oz?"

"There's been an unforeseen development, Linus."

"Oh? What?"

"It seems before Mr. Cutter attempted to take his life he made a series of recordings and distributed them over the Internet."

Linus stopped looking at the mail and turned his full attention to Oz.

"What sort of recordings?"

Oz played a small sample of the recordings.

_"….Violence? When we revolt, it's not for a particular culture. We revolt simply because, for many reasons, we can no longer breathe. I can't breathe and I can't go back to sleep. I can't be free, not now, not ever."_

Linus groaned and rubbed his forehead.

"Aw, Jesus, tell me you can eliminate these tapes or at least isolate them?"

"Unfortunately, no,' Oz replied.

"He couldn't just shoot himself in the head, he had to screw me after he died,' Linus lamented. 'Leave to Cutter to be a hopeless romantic. He's fighting a war that's already over. Everybody won. The consumer triumphs, but he couldn't get with the program. He just couldn't understand this country's citizens are politically uninterested and submissive, and the elites are eager to keep them that way. At best the nation has become a "managed democracy" where the public is shepherded, not sovereign. At worst it is a place where corporate power no longer answers to state controls. It's the world of the consumer now. It is an evolution of the species towards a safer and predictable future. Even in death he wouldn't see and let it go."

"As I said earlier, Linus, Cutter is not dead, technically."

"Then he's technically screwing me from the grave,' Linus snapped. "How many are there?"

"An exact number is hard to say,' Oz offered. "Bits and pieces keep appearing all over. It seems they are being referred to as the Cutter tapes. So far there has only be inquires from rather small media outlets, but …"

"I know, I'll have to make a statement.' Linus cut in. "Set up a video-conference for Cutter with a few select outlets. No questions of course."

"Of course,' Oz replied. "If I may, this is one benefit of Mr. Cutter's well known reluctance to do any media, Linus."

"Yes, he's already becoming more of a brand than a man,' Linus admitted. "If I can pull this off for the next few months, no one will ever know the difference. I'll finally be rid of that son of a bitch, Cutter, once and for all. The future is all that's important, Oz. As time goes on he'll become less and less of an actual person and just a brand name like Chanel or Neiman Marcus."

"He'll stop being real and yet become more real,' Oz replied.

"Yes,' Linus agreed. "I'll be in later, you know what needs to be done."

"Of course, Linus."

Kincaid switched off the monitor and sat back. He'd had all of Cutter's personal effects transferred to the penthouse and there wasn't very much. Since his transformation, Linus had been going over and over them trying to find something that would give him more insight into Cutter, but it was just a bunch of junk to him. The old photographs were like a door without a key to Cutter's memories. That was what Linus needed most to fully become Cutter. If he could somehow gain access to his memories than he could use those to sell anything. Memories were the key to everything and everyone. The most powerful messages are those that connect to the consumer on an unconscious emotional level, which trigger a memory of their own. Memories were the key.

Linus reached over and touched the screen in front of him and Cutter's favorite song came on. It was an old Kinks song, "Waterloo Sunset" and as it started Kincaid stared at the photos. He'd done some research on the song and the band. He found no connection to Cutter, but it was the oldest and most played tune of the few Cutter had. There must be something about it, Linus thought, something that triggered a memory for Cutter. Perhaps it had something to do with Cutter's dead wife, but there was no way of knowing. There was a memory here, Linus could feel it, but he couldn't make the connection.

* * *

Gotham – Nine Months Ago

The pretty young nurse smiled at Bruce as she took his temperature. It was part of his annual physical for the company and their insurance. They were currently in his office and the nurse seemed a little nervous for some reason. Bruce thought he'd be a little playful, in keeping with his image and put her at ease.

"So am I going to survive?" He asked as she took the thermometer from his lips. The young nurse looked at it and smiled.

"Perfect, Mr. Wayne, just like all your other tests."

"Please, call me Bruce."

"That wouldn't be very professional of me, would it,' she seemed to tease.

"I won't tell if you don't,' he replied.

She took something from her bag and turned to face him. She smiled and held up a needle. Bruce looked at it then at her.

"I was just kidding, really,' he offered.

"Would you roll up your sleeve, please, Bruce?' She asked.

"What is it?" He asked as he undid his cufflink.

"Standard flu shot,' she replied. "In a company this large it's always a good idea to get one. We wouldn't want you laid out on your back, would we?"

"How would you like me laid out?" he playfully asked.

"I see your reputation is well earned, Bruce,' she said, as she pushed the needle into his arm. "I was warned about you."

"Don't believe everything you hear,' he said, paying more attention to her than the needle.

"Some of it was rather interesting,' she replied. "Okay, all done."

"So do you have a boyfriend?' he asked, rolling down his sleeve.

"If I did, he wouldn't like me being alone with you, Bruce."

"You're perfectly safe, I promise."

"One last test, if you don't mind, Bruce,' she asked.

"I'm in your hands."

A small device came out of her bag and she lightly touched it to the back of his neck and then seemed to make some adjustments to the readings she was getting.

"What is that?"

"Just a quick scan,' she replied. "And it's already over so we're done now, Bruce."

She smiled and handed him a slip of paper, before heading towards the door. She stopped just as she was opening it and looked back at him.

"The answer is no, I don't have a boyfriend, Bruce and that's my number,' she said. "I think you know what to do from here. Bye."

She slipped out the door and Bruce smiled as he glanced down at the slip of paper.

* * *

Mazatlan – Mexico – Now

She lay on the floor shivering, the memories and emotions too overwhelming to bear. The image through a child's eye of her parents being gun down as she watched helplessly reduced her to an almost catatonic state. How long she remained there in the fetal position she wasn't sure. It was only the bone chilling cold that finally made her move. As if on autopilot she opened the bathroom door and made her way out into the main room. The blinds were drawn and the air conditioner was running on high. Shivering, she stripped off the soaked dress and climbed into the waiting bed. She pulled the covers up tight to her chin desperate for any warmth and began to cry.

Hours passed and darkness filled the room. Confusion and terror filled her, as nothing made sense. She had no sense of self or place of time. It was as if she emerged into this world when she woke up in that bathtub, yet she had these memories. With shaking fingers she found the light and turned it on. Wrapping the bed covers around her she made a tentative move towards the full-length mirror. Standing in front of it, the sense of distortion came rushing back. In her memories and mind's eye, she saw the world one way, but when she looked at her reflection in the mirror she saw another.

Guessing she would put her height at five two, if that and her weight at barely 100 soaking wet. Yet in her mind's eye the memories showed the world as if through the eyes of a man or men of around six feet three. She had almost a sense of vertigo trying to synthesize the two. The memories made her weak in the knees and nauseous, as they were so filled with sadness and violence. It was as if there were two layers of memories. The one of top was orderly, yet dark, while the one underneath was random and chaotic. The name Bruce Wayne came from the top layer, but there seemed to be huge gaps in its structure. It was an endless loop that always ran back to that memory in the alley. Feeling another wave of anguish coming on, she turned from the mirror and moved towards the blinds.

Glancing nervously out she had no sense of where she was or even what city. Nothing she saw triggered anything in the memories. How had she gotten here? More importantly who was she and why did she have these memories? Panic was just at the edges of her mind, but she tried to push it away. Attack this logically she thought, yet as soon as she thought this she wondered where it had come from? Am I crazy? Is this hell, she frantically wondered? The panic mixed with fear and terror and moved closer to overwhelming her.

Desperate for any distraction, she turned on the old radio that sat next to the bed. Loud, Latin music suddenly came blaring out and filled the room. She quickly turned it down. She listened to the singer, but she apparently didn't speak Spanish. It was much too upbeat, too aggressive for the state of mind she was in, so she changed the channel. She stopped when she heard an English voice. It was an oldies station. A song started and another flood of memories came. These were different. They were jumpy with no linear sense of them. A beautiful day, a hospital, a woman's face, but not the one in the mirror flashed through her mind. She was picking the woman up from the hospital, but there was an overwhelming sense of sadness. The woman was dying and there was nothing that could be done. The song playing in the memory echoed the song on the Oldies station.

"Waterloo Sunset."

Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks as she turned off the light and lay in the darkness listening.

* * *

The Watchtower – Four months ago

Bruce had found nothing in his own investigation of his blackout so he finally turned to the best minds on the Watchtower. Atom, Mr. Terrific and Jonn had run several tests on him and were just finishing making a three-dimensional mapping of his brain to see if they could find the cause. So far they had found nothing. As he slid out of the imaging tube, he saw Kara standing by the wall watching everything.

"Don't you have something else to do?" He said to her.

"And miss a chance to see Bruce Wayne without his shirt, no way,' she teased. "I'm already updating my Facebook page with the picture!"

"You'd better be joking,' he replied.

"Maybe,' she said with a mischievous smile.

Bruce sighed and turned to the others.

"Anything?" He asked.

"This will just be a second,' Ray said. He worked over the controls and then a three-dimensional image of Bruce's brain appeared above the platform. It slowly turned 360 degrees. They all moved in closer to see if they could find anything that might cause his blackout.

"I don't see anything,' Mr. Terrific said. "It's just like all the other tests, nothing. I don't see any medical reason why you'd be having a blackout."

"The scans I've done are equally negative," Jonn offered.

"Stop it right there."

Everyone turned and looked at Kara. She was moving towards them and pointing at the image.

"What's that right there?' She asked.

'What? I'm not seeing what you're seeing,' Ray said.

"Magnify this area right here,' she said, pointing to a tiny spot on the image. A few adjustments later and they all saw what she was referring to.

"It looks like three very small incisions, Bruce,' Mr. Terrific said. "On your hippocampus."

"That's the memory center of the brain,' Ray added.

"My memories?" Bruce repeated.

"This don't look natural, but whatever caused them is no longer here,' Jonn said.

"Someone has been trying to access my memories,' Bruce whispered, a rather dark and cold look coming over his face. "My memories."

* * *

September 11th, 2001

Events become memories. Some of these are shared memories, experiences that all of us have and yet within those shared memories individual memories color and change them. It's in these personal memories that we differentiate ourselves from everyone else. It's where we are truly individuals.

Sunshine and cloudless blue skies that stretched out seemingly forever appearing to hold the promise of a perfect fall day. The temperature was moderate in the mid-sixties. Jack Cutter absently noticed the lack of traffic as he drove to the hospital, yet his mind was on other things. The radio was off and his window was down. The sound of the wind rushing by kept him connected with the world around him but allowed his mind to focus on what was important.

Eleanor was coming home today, for the last time.

He'd spoken to her doctors the previous night and they'd given him the grim news. They had run out of options and it was only a matter of time now. All through the endless months of treatments and operations Jack had known this was a possibility, but had clung desperately to the small glimmers of hope that were offered. Now those were gone.

The sign showing the route to the hospital came up on his right and Jack put on his signal and turned. He knew for Eleanor's sake he had to put on a brave face, but he could feel himself collapsing inward under the emotions. It was as if one of the central pillars of his life was being pulled out from under him. She was dying and he was helpless to do anything but watch.

The hospital parking garage was full as he entered the structure and circled again and again until he finally found a spot on one of the top most levels. Stepping out into the sunshine, Jack locked the car and headed into the darkness towards the elevator. He was alone as he pressed the button and began to descend.

He emerged in the lobby and headed for the bank of elevators to go up to her room. In his periphery vision he noticed the lobby was full and everyone seemed to be watching the television. He passed unnoticed by the front desk and again was alone in the elevator. He watched the numbers silently change as he rose towards her floor. It felt as if each moment was like the beat of a pulse, the world around him too vivid so that all his senses seemed to be flooded with stimuli. With a ding the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

Eleanor's private room was halfway down the hall. The sterile sound of hospital monitors mixed with the faint smell of bleach and rot greeted him as he walked the last few steps and opened the door. Jack stood at the doorway for a moment, just looking at his wife. The television was off and the bed was already made for the next patient. She hadn't seemed to notice him yet and sat quietly in her wheelchair adjusting the scarf that covered the top of her head. Her hair had been one of the first things to go. She seemed but a shell of her former self, skin and bones swallowed up inside a hospital gown and robe.

She finally noticed him and looked up. Dark circles outlined her sunken eyes. Then she smiled and Jack's heart skipped a beat. The woman he'd fallen in love with and was in love with was still there.

"Hi,' he managed to say.

"Hi." She replied.

He moved over and kissed her, his hand instinctively skimming along her arm. Her frailty came rushing back as he felt how thin she was. The kiss ended and then just looked at each other for a moment, neither saying what both knew.

"Um, I see you're all packed,' he finally offered.

"One of the aides helped me."

"I guess all I need is to sign you out,' he replied. "Is the doctor coming back?"

"I don't think so,' Eleanor replied. "Jack?"

"Yes?"

"I don't want to wait here for the paperwork,' she said. "I just want to go home. Please?"

"Okay." He whispered.

He picked up her bag and moved to push her wheelchair. The bag seemed small in his hand. The fact that it contained the few items she'd brought with her made it special and important. For most it was just a few brushes, a bit of makeup, clothes that no longer fit and perhaps her phone, ordinary, everyday things but to him they were part of who she was. Slowly he wheeled her out the door and down the hallway. They could hear the nurses in their station but no one seemed to notice as they passed and got on the elevator.

They emerged in the lobby again, going unnoticed, as everyone's attention seemed focused on the television.

"What are they watching?' Eleanor asked.

"I don't know." Jack replied. "It's probably a shuttle launch or something."

Absently he noticed several people were crying as they watched the television. Under normal circumstances he probably would have stopped and asked what was going on, but these weren't normal circumstances. They continued on to the parking deck and rode up in the elevator. Emerging into the darkness of the garage he wheeled her out into the sunshine and to the car. He put her bag in the back and helped her into the passenger seat. Eleanor was too weak to even stand, but tried to put a brave face on for him.

Jack took the wheelchair back to the elevator and left it in the designated zone. He climbed in and managed a smile for her as he started the car.

"Let's go home, Jack," Eleanor softly said.

He nodded, a little too choked up to reply. They rode in silence most of the way. Both knew things would have to be said and talked about, but not now, not yet. Eleanor managed to pull down the visor and took a CD from the ones hidden there. She turned on the radio and pushed it in. Jack knew which one before the music even started. It was her favorite, a mix CD he'd made her back when they first started dating. The rolling bass started and was soon joined by the jangling guitar. He glanced over at her and they shared a smile. "Waterloo Sunset" filled the car as they drove home.

It was hours later after Eleanor attempted to eat something and Jack got her comfortably in bed that he finally turned on the television. He watched as the reports filled every channel and saw what everyone in the world had been watching all day. The scope and the tragedy were shocking, yet he found himself turning off the television. He said a silent prayer for the victims and their families, but his heart and mind were already overflowing with sadness. He didn't have enough to share for anyone else. His world was already crumbling and the person he cared about most in the world was slipping away from him. Tears came and once they did he wasn't sure they would ever stop.


	4. Chapter 4

4

Gotham – Night

He lingered in the shadows, ever vigilant, yet his mind was on other things. His city lay out before him. Sprawling, turbulent, dangerous and sexy, each could easily apply to Gotham, yet it was a combination of all of them. Heroes take on the character of their cities and he was the prime example. Nowhere could you feel so alone with people all around you like Gotham.

Bruce felt alone tonight.

He took tragedy hard, always had. It seemed to be in his DNA to want to fix things, make them right, but he knew that was impossible. He was just one man for all his skills and talents. His limits had been shown only too well earlier. He might be the Dark Knight, capable of stopping the Joker or Penguin, but he was helpless to stop one random act of violence that hit so close to home.

It felt strange that it was Bruce Wayne that had taken the hit. In many ways that was a role he put on as a disguise to protect his real self, the Batman. Today reminded him he wasn't immune to the things ordinary everyday citizens of Gotham had to deal with. He'd been painfully reminded under the mask, he was still Bruce Wayne.

She slipped down next to him with the grace of her namesake. He'd been expecting her. It seemed at all the important moments in his life she somehow was there.

"Bruce."

"Selina."

"I heard about what happened…'

She began, but he cut her off.

"Don't, please, don't offer sympathy."

"I wasn't. I know you too well for that,' she replied. "Help. That's what I was going to offer. This is my city too, Bruce."

"Thank you."

"There's going to be a lot of funerals, isn't there?"

"Yes."

"I'll go with you, if you want, to every one."

He turned and looked at her. When things had changed between them he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was always like this, but they never wanted to admit it. Maybe that was why he finally told her who he was, because he was tired of denying it.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome,' she replied. "Call me, even if it's just to talk, okay?"

"I will."

Their eyes met and even behind the goggles and mask, there was a connection. She slipped away again without another word.

* * *

San Francisco – 9 years ago

Linus Kincaid was starting to turn a profit with his business. That first infusion of money had got him underway and helped bring other investors. Many of them were the same ones that had ignored him at the conference. Outwardly he smiled and said bygones were bygones, but inwardly he neither forgave nor forgot how they had treated him.

While he was only regional at the moment, he had much bigger plans. Plowing his own earnings back into the business he'd managed to make the investors a 20 percent profit over their initial investment. They were all very pleased with this, but disappointed when he announced he wasn't going to take the company public anytime soon. Linus offered to buy them out for another 10 percent, bringing their profit on their investment to 30 percent. They were mostly eager to take the deal.

He had the same problem as when he started, he didn't have the money, at least not all of it. That's why he was here. His first investors, Julian and Simone were in town. Unlike the rest they had turned down the 20 percent profit and instead had Linus put it back into the company to help it grow. He wasn't foolish enough to believe that was out of the kindness of their hearts. It was probably a tax write off for them, but they had always seemed to get what he was trying to do.

Julian and Simone insisted on remaining silent investors preferring their involvement go through a shell company called Le Chabanais Investments. They left how his company was organized and the day-to-day operations to Linus. They never interfered with him, but only asked to be continually apprised of what was happening. For someone who was as much of a control freak as Linus they were ideal investors. That's what he was here to ask them for the rest of the money to buy the majority of the others out.

Dressed in a suit and tie this time, Linus rode up in the elevator to their suite. He could feel his palms were sweaty and idly wiped them on his pant legs. It wasn't the sales pitch that had him nervous, it was the prospect of seeing Simone again. Linus was more than a little infatuated with her, but always felt a bit overwhelmed when he saw her. Simone's beauty of course always got his attention, but there was something more about her, a strange mysterious and exotic quality.

Linus had found out everything he could about her after their first meeting. She was married to a promising young French politician, Robert Bisset who came from an old school, serious money family. They had made quite the splash on Paris society. There was talk of him being in line for the Presidency at one point and her as the glamorous first lady, but then he and his parents had died in a tragic automobile accident. They were driving down to join Simone on holiday. One of his tires had blown out and his car had gone off a cliff in Monaco. They were all killed instantly.

Linus found very little about Simone before she arrived in Paris. Her father, Julian and her had apparently moved around in the Orient but there was little information about what they were doing. He hadn't been the first to investigate her past, as her marriage raised her profile considerably. Privately Linus had diverted some of his own money to hire a top investigator to look into Simone and Julian before they arrived in France. The report he got back had been disappointing. Apparently they had no digital footprint before Paris.

Nothing was found, except what she had Julian had told everyone. That shouldn't be possible in the modern world, but in their case it apparently was. This only added to the mystery and allure for Linus. The one interesting thing his detective had found was the name Le Chabanais was from a famous historical French brothel. Linus had to wonder if this was their private joke on how business was like a whorehouse when you get right down to it. There had also been a somewhat famous brothel by the same name in Phuket, but a fire had destroyed it and everyone in it a few years before. Their past seemed to be what they said, almost too neat and clean, yet he could find nothing that said otherwise.

The appeal of Simone was obvious to any man, but for young men like Linus, ambitious, confident and goal oriented, she represented something else. She was the sort of woman they imagined themselves one day being with, almost like the crowning achievement to their business success. Secretly they felt unworthy of someone like her and believe she was out of their league normally. While in the public, business world they were supremely confident, privately they were less so.

Women like Simone had never paid them any attention in the past and this shaped how they saw themselves and the women. They tried rationalizing and justifying why this was, but deep down they came to believe they had to earn a woman like Simone. Men like Linus believed they had to achieve something, become a doctor or a business success to earn women like Simone. They didn't fee worthy, so they had to prove more to themselves then the women that they were. In the meantime they tried their best to become friends with them, never realizing that once they were in the friend zone it was rather difficult to ever get out of it.

As he reached their floor, Linus stepped out of the elevator and took a moment to make sure his suit and tie were straight before walking up to their room. The door opened just before he was going to knock and Julian ushered two large, rough looking men into the hallway. He saw Linus and smiled.

"Linus, so good to see you,' Julian said." Please come in and make yourself at home while I finish up my business with Yuri and Stanis."

The two men just looked at Linus as he said hello and then quickly slipped by them and into the suite. They looked like what gangsters would look like to Linus and he wondered what business Julian could possibility have with them? Any further thoughts on it were stopped when he saw Simone walk out of one of the bedrooms.

"Hello Simone,' Linus said with a smile.

"Oh, Linus, hello,' she replied.

He noticed she was dressed differently than he'd seen her before. She had on pleated charcoal gray slacks, black silk blouse and flats, still lovely but hardly the style she usually presented. Linus wasn't a tall man, but without heels Simone seemed even tinier than usual. It gave Linus a surge of confidence.

"You look beautiful as always, Simone,' he offered.

"Thank you, that's sweet,' she said, moving over to pick up her handbag and check its contents. "I understand you need more money?"

"Um, well, yes." Linus admitted, hoping for a little more small talk with her before they got down to business. "It's a golden opportunity, I assure you."

"Oh, I'm sure it is,' she absently replied, before turning to look at him again. "Julian will fill me in on all the details later, but I doubt there will be a problem."

"You're not staying?" Linus asked, disappointed that their meeting would be so short.

"No, I've been informed that an acquaintance's health is going to take a turn for the worse,' she replied. "I need to be there."

"Is it serious?"

"Terminal."

"I sorry."

"Thank you,' Simone said. She was just about to leave when a thought seemed to occur to her. She moved towards Linus and stopped within his personal space. She smiled. "I was wondering if you could do me a favor, Linus?"

"Of course, if I can,' he immediately replied.

"The artificial intelligence you've built, what's it called again?"

"Oz."

"Oz, yes of course, how clever,' Simone said. "I'm fascinated with the whole thing and I was hoping you would give me access to it? Please?"

She subtly moved close to him, looking up into his eyes.

"That shouldn't be a problem,' Linus replied. Her nearness was playing havoc with his senses. More than anything he wanted to reach out and touch her.

"Complete access?" She asked softly.

"Of course."

"Thank you, you're sweet,' Simone happily said and then kissed him on the cheek. He was about to return the kiss but she was already moving away. "If you could send the codes and passwords to me as soon as possible I'd be so appreciative, Linus. Bye."

He turned to watch her go and saw Julian standing in the doorway with a knowing smile. Simone kissed him on the cheek and he reciprocated. She left and he closed the door. Silence hung in the air between the two men for a moment.

"I was just about to have a glass of Limoncello, would you care to join me, Linus?"

"Um, ah, well, okay.' Linus fumbled to reply.

Julian's smile got slightly bigger as he moved over to pour them both a drink. He turned and handed one to Linus.

"So let's talk about money, shall we?" Julian said, as he raised his glass. Linus tentatively raised his glass and then took a sip. He wasn't really much of a drinker, but it seemed like the polite thing to do.

Julian ushered them over to the sitting area and dropped into one of the chairs. Linus sat on the couch opposite him.

"So, um, what sort of business are you in with Yuri and Stanis?" Linus asked as an icebreaker.

"Guns."

"Guns? Seriously?"

"Yes,' Julian replied. "Their company makes very good weapons, high-end rifles and pistols. There's always a great demand for guns, Linus."

"I suppose, but you never struck me as the gun type, Julian,' Linus replied.

"I'm not,' Julian offered. "It's strictly a business deal, an investment. Simone has an interested in them, though."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes, she's quite the enthusiast,' Julian informed him. "Now, let's talk about more important things. I read your proposal and I liked it. Buying out some of the other investors will give you more control which benefits all of us."

"I'm glad you agree,' Linus replied. "I know 20 million seems like a lot, but within a year I think I can double it."

"I have no doubt you can,' Julian said, taking a sip from his drink. "I'll have the money wired to you later today."

"Thank you, Julian and thank Simone for me too."

"Of course, 'Julian said with a smile. "Since you're here and we have the money matter settled, I was hoping you could tell me more about how you plan on expanding. I always enjoy reading your updates so this seems like a rare opportunity to hear it directly from you, Linus."

Linus was relieved. The money was set and he could already see the future. He began telling Julian of his plans with relish. Julian sat and listened patiently, taking in every word Linus said. When he finished, Julian poured them both another drink.

"Most ambitious, Linus, most ambitious." Julian commented. "I guess my only question is about your choice of person for your first national brand. A celebrity or sports figure, really?"

"It's not ideal, I admit,' Linus replied. "Their name recognition will help though."

"True, but they wouldn't be exclusive, would they?" Julian asked. "They would already have other deals in place with other companies. Won't that diminish what you're trying to do?"

"Yes but until we find someone else, we have to proceed with the best possible alternative,' Linus informed him. "I don't want to rush this, but I still want to grow the brand while we're looking."

"That sounds very wise,' Julian offered. "Have you thought about what sort of person you ideally want as your signature brand?"

"Yes, I'm still evaluating factors looking for the best candidate, but even with Oz it's a complicated process."

"I'm sure you'll find just the right person,' Julian said reassuringly. "If I may, I'd like to make a suggestion or two?"

"You know someone?" Linus asked.

"Oh, no, no, nothing like that,' Julian replied, waving the thought off. "Just qualities you might want to take a special look at."

"Such as?"

"I assume your first brand will be a man?" Julian asked.

"Yes."

"Than I would suggest a man that has suffered a tragedy."

"Why a tragedy?" Linus asked.

"Because a man that had suffered appeals to both women and men,' Julian explained. "A tragedy makes them seem more human, more relatable. It gives people something to invest in the person and root for him. I would think a soldier of some kind would do nicely."

"Like an amputee? Someone like that?"

"No, that would garner the right sort of sympathy, but you are trying to sell merchandise with this fellow after all,' Julian replied. "A more personal loss I would imagine would work better. I once knew a man that would have been perfect, but alas, that option is out of the question. Also if you consider a soldier, it should be from a relatively clean conflict like the first Gulf War, something like that. People love heroes, especially those that have suffered a loss."

"Yes, I suppose you're right,' Linus admitted as he thought about it. "It couldn't be a general or high-ranking officer that would most likely put them out of our age window. We'd need someone lower on the command structure."

"The word 'grunt' I believe is what you're looking for,' Julian suggested. "If he were a volunteer, so much the better."

"Interesting, Julian, I think you might be on to something,' Linus said.

"Just trying to help your vision in some small way,' Julian replied and then returned to the original subject. "So much of that side of the business, let's get back to the reason you are here. I'll have the money transferred to your account later today if that's satisfactory?"

Yes," Linus said with a nod. "I assume you want it to go through your holding company like before?"

"Yes."

"You realize that after this you and Simone will be the second largest shareholders after myself,' Linus said with a smile. "Almost 20 percent."

"21 to be exact,' Julian replied with a smile of his own.

* * *

Baltimore – Three-Month Ago

Batman silently slipped into the hotel room, but immediately saw it wasn't necessary. The occupant had long since stopped carrying. The pretty young nurse that had given him a flu shot wasn't pretty anymore. She was dead, sprawled out on the bed with her head caved in. As he examined the body he placed the murder at two days ago. She would be answering no questions for anyone.

It had taken longer than it should have to find her. The number and name she gave him were bogus. It turned out she had been hired through a temp service, but they had more phony documentation file for her. The documentation was very good, very professional, but also untraceable. Her fingerprints weren't on file anywhere either, so he had to start from square one.

Norma Saunders, 26, from Clearwater, Florida was her name. She'd gone to a technical school to be a nurse's assistant but never graduated. From her tax records she seemed to be a bit of a gypsy after that, popping up here and there for a while and then moving on. Things had turned around for her about sixteen months ago. Suddenly Norma was making regular deposits into her bank account. Always less than ten thousand dollars so the Feds wouldn't show any interested, but good size chucks of cash for someone her age and limited work history.

It was grim business but Bruce began a search of the room. It only took five minutes and turned up nothing. Before he left, he pulled the sheet up over her and called the authorities.

"I'll find the people that did this, Norma, you have my word."

* * *

Mazatlan – Mexico – Now

Morning had come. The blazing sun was trying to slip through the blinds, but they held it at bay for the most part. Under the covers on the bed felt safe and she was reluctant to move. As long as she stayed where she was she didn't have to deal with all the rest. The world was out there though. She could hear it in the hallway. There was a knock on her door. She froze, terrified to move.

"Servicio de habitaciones."

There was another knock and then she could hear the person moving off. It seemed she wouldn't be able to hide out here forever. Tentatively she sat up and looked around the room she was in. It was a hotel room she realized for the first time. She'd been so freaked out before it hadn't registered. If it was a hotel room then she must have checked in, she thought. That meant luggage, perhaps some identification, something that would shed light on this horrible nightmare.

Wrapping the sheet around her slender body, she stood up. She was receiving two distinct sets of impressions. Her memories were trying to see the world as a man, yet she only had to glance down to see she was a woman. This made everything seem off. Her sightline was wrong, much lower than it should have been. As she began to move, the shift of her hips and the movement of other parts were disconcerting.

She stopped in front of the full-length mirror again and took a deep breath. She let the sheet fall to the ground. Yes, definitely a woman. She was small, so much smaller than the image in her mind's eye, almost tiny and delicate. Tiny perfect feet connected to slender ankles and calves, the moved up towards wider hips and then a tapered waist. Yes, definitely a woman. She felt embarrassed looking at herself, almost like a voyeur peaking in someone's window. She quickly picked up the sheet and covered her body.

The panic was just at the edges and she could feel it closing in. So much of what defines a person is how they see themselves, but in her case she was getting conflicting images. She was a young, tiny woman yet had no memory of being a woman before she woke up in the bathtub. The memories she did have were sporadic and disjointed. There was no narrative to them, just bits and pieces. The image staring back at her in the mirror wasn't the image in her mind.

Willing herself to breath, she moved over to the closet. She opened it and found a plain gray suitcase on the floor. Dragging it out, she set it on the bed and opened it. On top was a purse and for a moment her heart started to race. She opened it and immediately looked for any identification, anything that would explain what was happening to her. A wallet and a key were all that were inside. She opened the wallet, but there was no identification, nothing except 21 hundred dollars in cash. The key had no markings, so it could be from anywhere. After searching every inch of the purse she set it aside.

The small suitcase did have some clothing; women's clothing but that told her nothing. As she lifted each item from the bag and examined it, she couldn't help noticing how nondescript the items were. A blouse, a skirt, a pair of pants and some underwear, all in neutral colors like something worn in a hospital ward. Was she an escaped patient, she wondered? She checked for markings and tags, but found none.

Who was she and what was going on?

* * *

Gotham – 4:37 A.M. – The Batcave

Bruce sat in front of his large computer. The faces of the victims from the bombing filled the main screen in front of him. He's been looking at them for hours, taking in every detail, burning their faces into his memory. He didn't want to forget any of them.

On a smaller, side screen were the faces of the bombers. Everyone would know about them. It was a sad fact that when something horrifying happened most never remembered the victims, but they remembered the killers. Say the words Columbine High School massacre and most think of only Harris and Klebold, not the 15 people they murdered. That was just the nature of things.

The bombers or murderers, which seemed more appropriate, were Larry Marshall and Debbie Moore. Bruce had their records in front of him, a short list of drug and petty crimes. Debbie had once worked for Wayne Industries as a temp, but was let go in the last round of cost cutting measures. Larry had applied for a job but had been turned down when he failed the drug test. So that was probably the reason they picked Bruce's building.

Why they did it was still a mystery. Implicitly there seemed to be a connection between this bombing and the shopping center bombing earlier. The two of them saying 'I am not a number' suggested a link to the Cutter tapes, but there was so little to go on. Cutter or whoever had made those tapes still hadn't been identified, nor had the bomber at the shopping center. The easy conclusion would be to say they were one and the same, but what if they weren't? What if the person behind the tapes was some new leader and these bombings were part of a larger plan?

The frustrating part for Bruce was there was no real connection between the two bombings, other than they were bombings. Usually in cases like this he could compare the two and draw some conclusions. He could make up a profile of the bombers by looking at their backgrounds, but with only Larry and Debbie to go on, there was nothing to compare it too. He couldn't make any connections and this frustrated him to no end.

Glancing up at the screen and taking in the victims once again, Bruce silently made a pledge to them he would figure this out and stop it. He just wasn't sure how he was going to do that at the moment.

* * *

Metropolis

Patterns flow through our lives. Time, place, experience, they shape how we react and perceive the world around us every day. Lessons learned early tend to stick with us the most fiercely.

Selina adjusted her sunglasses as she stepped out the bank and into the sunshine. She hated Metropolis frankly; it was much too bright all the time. She would have avoided the city entirely, but she was also a pragmatist. Having more than her share of dealings with the criminal element, even being a part of it, she knew statistics said Metropolis had the lowest number of bank robberies.

Gotham was her home, but she wasn't about to put all her money in one basket. Having liberated her share of money from others, she didn't like the idea of someone liberating it from her. Yes, you could probably say it was hypocritical, but Selina wanted to keep her money to herself. While she had several accounts under many different names all over, she used this one, Metropolis National Bank for her legit needs. Even criminals have to pay the light and water bill.

She made the usual transactions, paying everything ahead of time and then made a small withdrawal. She smiled as her fingers caressed the crisp new bills in her pocket. There was something about cash she found reassuring. Perhaps it was the difference between growing up with money and not growing up with money. If you grew up with money, you know you have it, so it isn't as important. If you didn't grow up with it, life is very different. Debit cards and money orders are a way of life if you're poor. You shop for your groceries with a food stamp card, pay bills with money orders, but cash is something you have very little of. Perhaps this is the appeal of selling drugs; you always have lots of cash. Cash conveys status in a poor community.

Lessons learned early, remain with you the rest of your life. Selina was far from poor anymore, but cash in hand or pocket still put a bounce in her step.

She knew she had plenty of time to get back to Gotham to accompany Bruce to the first of the funerals, so she decided to stop off and grab some coffee and perhaps something to eat. Metropolis was full of the trendy coffee houses. She made her way into Starbucks and ordered the Tarragon Chicken Salad Sandwich and Iced White Chocolate Mocha. She paid with cash. Picking a seat by the window she sat alone and indulged herself. She knew several of the men were looking at her and while she was flattered, she wasn't interested. She conveyed this to the first one that came up to her table to hit on her with a simple no. She turned away to look out the window to emphasis that the conversation was over. No one else came over to her table.

The sandwich was excellent, as was the drink. While she ate, she kept an eye on her surroundings. Years of experience made this almost second nature. She spotted the cameras, the exits, surveyed the other 40 customers so she had a clear outline of everything in her mind. This was a skill honed as a thief and while she wasn't here for anything but lunch, it never hurt to keep those skills sharp.

Selina was thus the first to notice him. It was small things, the heavy coat he had on, the way he nervously looked around as he entered, his eyes searching and finding the camera. He had to be in his early twenties she would guess from his disheveled appearance. Oh great, she thought, I stop into the one coffee shop he picked to rob out of this whole city.

She didn't alert anyone and probably would have just continued eating her lunch, but something was off about the guy. Furtively taking another look at him, she realized it was his eyes. It suddenly dawned on her he wasn't here to rob the place. She set the rest of her sandwich down as he turned and looked at one of the cameras.

"I'm not a number,' he shouted.

Now everyone was looking at him. His hand came out of his pocket and he was holding a grenade. Customers started to scream as he pulled the pin. She was up and moving towards him without a second thought. Dodging the mad scramble to get away from him, she launched herself. Selina caught him shoulder high and drove them both through the glass door and out into the street. As they landed, she expertly rolled and was on her feet.

"You can't stop it,' the young man groaned. His coat fell open and she gasped. He was wired with more grenades all over his body. Underneath them he was wearing a plain white tee shirt with the logo © crossed out in red. Why she remembered it was the same shirt as the two that blew up Wayne Tower's lobby were wearing, she would never know. Instinct took over.

"Bomb!" Someone shouted and now the mad panic spread to the street. People ran away, not caring which direction as long as it was from the young man.

"Shit,' Selina groaned. You had to be a hero; she chastised herself, knowing she was too close to escape. She attempted to run anyway, but the impact of the first grenade going off knocked her to the ground. A chain reaction started. Pain lanced through her and the world around her started to go black. Suddenly she felt as if she were moving, not falling but rising. She lost consciousness.

* * *

Metropolis

Selina's eyes slowly flutter open and a small groan escapes her lips. The last rays of sunlight are streaming in from a window and she winces a bit. It took a moment, but slowly her vision adjusted. She was in a hospital room by the look of it. How she got here, she hadn't a clue. She started to try and get up, but pain lanced through her side. She gave a little gasp and dropped back down on the bed.

"Careful, or you'll tear your stitches."

Bruce.

She glanced around the room and finally spotted him in the shadows. He was dressed in a dark suit, standing rigid against the wall.

"Thanks for the heads up,' she groaned, trying to shift slight to get more comfortable. She raised her arm to adjust the pillow, but again pain rushed through her.

"Stay still,' he said, moving towards her. "Here, let me do that."

He didn't look at her as he adjusted the pillow. She smiled a bit as she watched him fuss with it until it's just so. She could see the concern in his posture and hear it in his voice. She knew him well enough to know situations like this were difficult for him. He'd lost so much in his life already; he hated the thought of losing anyone else.

"Thanks again."

"You're welcome,' he replied. He looked at her now. "Care to tell me what you were thinking? It was a reckless thing to do, you could have been killed."

"Yeah, that crossed my mind after it started,' she admitted.

"In Metropolis of all places,' he said with a wave of his hand. "You hate Metropolis, Selina."

"I know, but I had some business to attend to."

"Your business almost got you killed,' he said again. "What were you playing at being the hero?"

"You must be a bad influence on me,' she replied with a smile.

"Don't be cute, this is serious. Taking that idiot head on like that was just reckless. You're lucky to be alive,' He stated.

"About that,' she asked. "How did I get here, anyway?"

Bruce pointed up.

"He brought you."

"God?"

"Don't be dense, you're in Metropolis, remember,' he snapped.

"Oh, that him,' she replied. "Thank him for me, will you?"

"Yes, but that's sort of what he does,' Bruce replied.

His fingertips absently brush against her hair, but he hadn't met her eyes.

"Bruce."

"Yes?"

"I'm okay,' she said to him. She reached her hand towards him and he took it. He looked into her eyes.

"You were lucky this time,' he said, his voice much softer. "You were just so damn …"

"Reckless, I know," she said, cutting him off. She gave his hand a squeeze and smiled. A brief smile crossed his lips as they held each other's gaze.


	5. Chapter 5

5

Sky Blue World

"Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful,

without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?"

- Douglas Adams -

Gotham – 3 A.M.

A somber mood hung over the studio all night. The phones lines had been full since before the show started. People were angry and afraid. They wanted to voice it to someone, so they called. This is what the show was supposed to be about and had been in the beginning. It was late and most of the listeners were alone out there. Nighttime was the worst, as every sound or thought seemed amplified somehow.

The feeling of being alone brings with it thoughts of mortality. It brings our own Ivan Ilyich moment, when we realize in the end we all die alone. It's at these times when someone, anyone, just another voice in the darkness helps to push it away. For a few hours, we're not alone.

The red light went on and the host lit up another cigarette.

"We're back. I don't think I need to reiterate what's on everyone's mind tonight. I will once again condemn the bombing at Wayne Tower was senseless and barbaric. If we're going to live in a civilized society, there is no place for this. But people want to talk about it and are going to talk about it. I want to talk about it too, but all of it. Some of you have blamed me for playing the Cutter tapes and that's your right. I worry about that too. The thought that I might play any part in this sickens me."

He paused, taking another hit off his cigarette and a sip of coffee.

"It's hard to know what the right thing to do is sometimes. If I could stop this by not playing the tapes I would in a heartbeat, but the world has changed. Fifty years ago you might hear what was happening in your own town, but now you hear about what happens everywhere. The world is moving so fast, it seems more violent and chaotic then ever, but it's not really. You just hear about it all now."

He paused again.

"The natural reaction to violence and horror is to turn away. We get so much information nowadays. It's information overload. Nuclear disasters, ethnic cleaning, protesters shot in the street it goes on and on. Yet with all this information around us today, it's easier than ever to be ignorant. We tend to like voices that reinforce what we want to believe and tune out those that don't. Our world than becomes an echo chamber where opinions get repeated over and over until they are just accepted facts. When an opposing view actually brakes through we react hostilely and attack it for not fitting into our echo chamber world. There's an old saying though, everyone's entitled to their own opinion, but not their own facts."

The host stubbed out his cigarette and exhaled.

"It's so easy to fall into ignorance, to let the distractions fill up our time. Did you know books are still being banned all around the world? Think of the irony, that Fahrenheit 451 is in the top 100 of books banned in the last ten years. The Harry Potter series were the most challenged books last year on the grounds of occultism, Satanism, violence, being anti-family and having religious viewpoint. We can't be afraid of ideas, people."

The host lit another cigarette.

"So I'm going to continue to play the Cutter tapes. Not because I agree with them or even believe what they are saying, but because I want us all to understand why. If I don't then I'm not doing my job. I'm not talking about my radio gig, but my job as a citizen. If I don't stay informed and try to at least hear the different sides to the argument then I can't bitch about it later. We can't just accept what we're told as fact without any evidence that it's so. If we do then we participate in our own ignorance."

The host paused and took a sip of coffee before returning to the topic.

"Something is happening, people. People are blowing themselves up for a reason. If I just accepted what the corporate media tells me then I would believe that anyone that protests is just a deadbeat or a wacko. They can't all be deadbeats and wackos, can they? Something is going on and it's spreading. I believe the Cutter tapes have something to do with it, but I freely admit I'm not sure. That's why we need to examine what's happening and try to figure it out. Monsters are created when reason slumbers."

The host sat back and paused for just a moment.

"All right, let's take some more calls."

* * *

Gotham

In the end we know so little about one another. Bruce had passed Linda at the front desk and Ted from security for almost six years, yet there was so much about their lives he was only learning after their death. He'd noticed the small cross on her necklace and the yellow ribbon on Ted's minivan with the cross as the center, but he hadn't realized the extent of their faith.

Sitting in one of Gotham's new mega-churches, with Selina along side of him, Bruce was here to show his support and offer his sympathy. There was room for at least one thousand and all the seats were filled. It seemed the bombing had brought an outpouring of compassion from the wider community. Two coffins sat at opposite angles in front of the stage. Selina and Bruce sat towards the back. He wore a black pinstriped suit with a red tie. Selina was in a black dress with a jacket that covered her bandages. They'd argued over her coming. He insisted she stay in the hospital a few more days, but she disagreed.

"I said I'd go with you, so I'm going with you."

That was the extent of her argument.

She won.

It didn't stop him from fussing over her the whole way. She was stiff and sore, but luckily her injuries weren't too severe. She gave a small groan as she shifted, trying to get comfortable on the hard wooden bench.

"Are you all right?' Bruce immediately asked.

"Yes."

"I still think you should be in the hospital or at least resting."

"I'll rest afterwards, Bruce."

He looked at her for a moment and saw the defiant tilt of her head. She was just as stubborn as he was. His gaze shifted as he took in the rest of the gathering.

"Thank you for coming, by the way,' he whispered. "I hate these things."

"I know."

He gave her hand a squeeze and she returned it. Funerals always took Bruce back to that horrible week that that had followed the worst night of his life. Just sitting in this environment seemed to trigger memories of his parents' funerals. As they started to replay in his mind suddenly something unexpected happened. He wasn't sure what it was but for just moment the memories flickered in and out. It was like the power made been turned off and on rapidly on a computer monitor. The images in the memories faded and then jumped back into focus. Bruce leaned forward and put his hand to his brow. It happened so quickly for just instant he wondered if he was having a stroke, but it had cleared just as fast. He looked around but everything seemed normal. As he sat back he could feel Selina's eyes on him.

"Are you okay?" She whispered.

"Fine.' He immediately replied. He adjusted his tie and tried to play it off. "Just a little hot in here."

She wasn't buying it, but let it go.

There was the usual whispers and chatter before a service and then the lights shifted indicating it was about to start. The crowd grew quiet. On one side of the stage a curtain lifted and a platform rotated to show the choir. They were already singing as they came into view. Everyone sat up a little straighter and then stood. Bruce and Selina rose along with the rest of the crowd.

The choir led them through several songs, some old, some new. They finished with Amazing Grace. As they finished several people in the audience were heard to say, Praise the Lord and Halleluiah!

Everyone sat down and the lights shifted towards the center of the stage. A platform rose out of the floor. Reverend Bill Hudson stood behind a glass podium. He was a man in his late forties and it had been his vision that built the Divine Light Bible Church. He had a commanding presence of one used to addressing large crowds. His rich baritone voice was amplified by the microphone and echoed through the hall. He looked around the gathering and then walked down and kissed both caskets. He whispered something to both and then slowly made his way back to the podium.

"Brothers and Sisters we have lost two of our own,' he said. "This isn't a time for grieving though, for they have gone to better place. I'm as sure of this as I am that there is only one true savior, Jesus Christ."

As he paused, there were many who said 'amen'.

"Brother Ted Lauren and Sister Linda Tomlin were good, God fearing people.'

This brought more and louder amens.

"I went down earlier to the scene of this tragedy. I walked amongst the broken glass and shattered furniture. I stopped in the middle of the carnage and sniffed the air. Satan."

A hush rumbled when through the crowd.

"I could smell him in the air. It was an acrid odor, if it had been a little stronger it would have singed my nose hairs."

This got a chuckle from the crowd but it ended quickly.

"The Enemy had swept in with this madness, but the real battle is only now under way."

"Amen!"

"I smell the presence of Satan," Reverend Bill thundered from the pulpit. "What we saw the other day came from Satan's home office. Satan had a plan. Satan wants us to live in fear in Gotham. He wants us to look with mistrust at each other. He wants us to see young men and women and wonder are they going to follow the same evil path? Here's what he wants us to feel: _Look how powerful and scary Satan is! _"

Reverend Bill takes the mike from the podium and begins to walk around the stage. "Satan wants us scared. He wants us to be angry. Satan wants us to stay right here, with uncontrollable grief. He wants evil to be repaid by evil. He wants hatred to be repaid by hatred. Satan has plans for Gotham."

He slowly walked down the steps and rested his one hand for just a moment on each coffin before looking out at the audience.

"This was so much more than two thugs with bombs in my eyes. This is spiritual warfare. The Enemy has taken the battlefield in broad daylight right here in Gotham! I welcome it, for it hastens Christ's reappearance to smite him!"

"Amen!"

"Linda and Ted are like the martyrs that call out to God at the onset of the Apocalypse in the book of Revelation, brothers and sisters! How long? How long will it be until my blood is avenged?"

"Amen!"

"The great signs of the Apocalypse are already under way and the moment is at hand! The Fifth seal will be broken shortly, brothers and sisters and then all the martyrs since the beginning of time will appear under the altar pleading for the Enemy's blood to be spilled in return! The Rapture!"

Many in the gathering were on their feet shouting Amen. Bruce and Selina were not.

* * *

Mazatlan, Mexico – Now

'In the weeds' is an expression anyone that has worked in restaurant industry is familiar with. It is that point where if you look at the big picture you realize how overwhelmed you are. There are too many people, too many orders, all at the same time. It's easy to loose it, to just freak, as it all seems too much, too overwhelming. The other way to deal with it is to just put your head down and grind it out. Don't focus on the whole, but one specific task and then another and another until you've worked your way through it.

She felt the panic and hysteria growing as she contemplated the situation she found herself in. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes and a scream had to be choked down. More than anything she wanted climb back in the bed and pull the covers over her head to shut out the world, everything. She knew if she gave in to those feelings she end up back in the fetal position sobbing.

One step at a time, create order out of this chaos, she told herself. She moved hesitantly back into the bathroom. Just the sight of the bathtub sent a chill through her body. The ice had finally melted, but she couldn't get it out of her mind. Why had she been in a tub full of ice? It was like something out of an urban legend nightmare. Had she been the victim of some macabre organ harvesting? Was that the reason for the three small vertical cuts on her wrists and at the base of her neck? Was that why she couldn't remember who she was?

Once she started thinking of questions they began to flood her mind and the panic began to rise. No, she thought, focus on one thing; just one thing at a time or you'll loose it again. With shaky resolve she let the sheet slip to the floor and stepped into the tub. Hot water, glorious warmth began to surround her. She let it infuse her every pore driving the last of the bone chilling cold away. Clean again she dried herself off and got dressed. She might not have any memories of being a woman, but her body seemed to instinctively know how to dress one. The clothes were utilitarian at best, but she had no alternative at the moment.

Her curls were still damp, but she needed to move on to the next task. She found a few sheets of complimentary hotel stationary and a pencil in the drawer. Sitting at the small table she looked at it. Hotel Buena Vista, Mazatlan was on the letterhead. So she was in Mexico. This triggered nothing in her mind so she continued. At the top of the page she wrote the most important question. WHO AM I?

Nothing came, so she drew three columns on the paper. In the first column she wrote down everything she could think about herself and her present situation. The hotel and her location went first, followed by waking up in the tub full of ice. Turning to look in the mirror, she noted her physical appearance. She guessed at her age putting it around 22. Height perhaps 5'2", weight no more than 100 pounds. Someone her age should have been so used to her reflection, having seen it thousands of times on a daily basis; it should have been second nature to her. But it wasn't. When she closed her eyes and thought of herself there was nothing. Or at least not what stared back when she opened her eyes again.

Was this unique to her or would anyone have the same problem? If you had to sit behind a blind and describe yourself to a sketch artist what would you say? Would the finished sketch look like you? Would how you describe yourself depend on how you were feeling and other factors? If no one had ever said you were attractive or ugly or fat or thin, would you? Think without looking; is your face round or oval? Is your nose prominent or just big? Is much of what you would say dependent on how others see you or can you get passed the illusion to an actual true picture of yourself?

Was she pretty? She didn't know. She wanted to say she was attractive, but could you be objective about your own looks? As she stared at her refection the words that came to mind were small, vulnerable, slight and tiny. The world around seemed too big, as if it were scaled for larger beings than she. The perspective from her memories only added to the disorientation. The panic and hysteria were rising up inside of so she quickly shifted her focus to the second column.

Bruce Wayne was the name that had come to her lips. Incomplete memories flooded through her mind when she thought of it. Memories of a happy childhood cut short by tragedy. There was so much blood. Other faces and names flashed through her mind and she wrote down, but there were only fragments associated with each. Overarching it all was darkness, a specter she couldn't put a name to. Fear and violence swirled around the darkness and was a part of it. The names meant nothing to her, yet she could put a face to each. How could she know such intimate memories about strangers? As she glanced at the mirror again it was only too obvious she wasn't this Bruce Wayne, yet how did she have bits of his memory?

She glanced down at her wrists, at the three vertical cut and wondered if there was a connection?

The third column was for the other memories. These were different, as if from another person entirely. They were much more fragmented and chaotic. For the most part they were just fleeting images with no sense of order. Two seemed to stand out, a young woman dying and a symbol ©. At first she wondered if the woman of those memories was her, but quickly realized the perspective was of someone observing, a witness to her last days. The sadness associated with those ephemeral memories was overwhelming.

Setting the pencil down, she looked at everything she'd written. Nothing on the sheet answered the central question, who was she? If anything it only deepened the mystery. She had memories, just none of her own. Another search of the room yielded no further clues or information. If she were going to find an answer it would have to be out there. The only name she remembered was Bruce Wayne, but it was hardly practical, so she would need another until she discovered who she really was.

* * *

Gotham - Later

Bruce and Selina had given their condolences to the families and made their exit. They sat in the back of his limo heading towards her apartment. They had been quiet for almost ten minutes.

"Well, that was interesting,' Selina finally offered.

"Not your cup of tea?' Bruce asked.

"I'm at best a lapsed Catholic, Bruce, a very lapsed Catholic,' she replied. "I guess though, if they get you young it shapes how you see those sorts of things. All those theatrics made me a little uncomfortable. How about you?"

"A bit,' he admitted. "I disagreed with the whole riff about Satan mostly. I just saw two people with a bomb bent on blowing something up and not caring who else got hurt. I need to figure out why. Blaming Satan is just letting them off easy. They're responsible, no one else."

"I noticed you didn't say much to the Reverend on our way out,' Selina said.

"It wasn't my place,' Bruce replied. "If the families find some comfort in it, then it served its purpose."

"So you're not going to be investigating Satan anytime soon,' Selina asked with a smile.

"No."

"The End of Days isn't in Batman's jurisdiction?"

"I'll leave that to others,' Bruce replied.

"So what now?"

"We take you home and you rest,' he informed her.

"I could help,' she offered.

"You already told me everything about what happened in Metropolis, Selina,' Bruce replied. "You were damn lucky don't push it. Just rest and try to stay out of trouble, please?"

"I always try,' she said with a smile.

"Try harder this time,' he replied with a smile of his own.

* * *

San Diego – 2 months ago

Linus Kinkaid stood in front of his board of directors. He was smiling. They were still struggling with fact that he looked and sounded exactly like Cutter. When he spoke though it became crystal clear whom they were listening to.

"Gentlemen and ladies, we are on the cusp of the future. Where the old business model was to mass produce and sell cheap, we are going another way."

"That model has been pretty successful,' one of board members said. "From Wal-Mart to Microsoft it has been shown to work time and again."

"The record player worked well for its time too,' Linus countered. 'Consumerism has triumphed over every other ideology. People want things in every culture, no matter what form of government they have. 'Hell, the Dali Lama has an I-Pod! The war is over, the consumer won!"

"Be that as it may,' one of the directors started to object. Kinkaid cut him off.

"No, this isn't a debate,' Kinkaid said. "The world is changing right before our eyes. Consumption, especially conspicuous consumption isn't enough anymore. What does it matter if you have the most advanced sports car in the world, when everyday someone else is buying one too? People are looking for meaning in the products they buy. Ideology, religion, patriotism have all failed the consumer. If anyone can have them, then the consumer stops being special. He's just another in the herd."

Linus began pacing.

"Basic needs have long since been met in the developed world. That's why advertisement began and has flourished. It taps into desire and the unconscious to create new needs. This has worked spectacularly well, too well really. The consumers have caught on. Like so many things the words were overused and lost their meaning. What meaning does 'limited edition' have if a disposable razor uses it?"

Kinkaid stopped pacing and faced the board members.

"Secretly, all people are snobs,' Linus explained. "They all want to be inside the velvet rope, but not if everyone else is too. They want their purchases to have meaning and make them special. The malls are the new churches to the ideology of consumerism. An alternative, climate controlled town hall that caters to the customers every need and want. The one thing it can't give them is that feeling of being special. That's where we come in. By limiting each product within each brand we set ourselves apart from the crowd and thus our customers too. If we sell ten thousand shirts, that's it, there are no more. There is no reordering, no sale, no expensive advertising campaign, it's over and we move on."

"So we create value and exclusivity?' One of the bored members asked.

"Exactly, we are creating meaning," Kincaid replied. "We are doing the opposite of just about everyone else. The implied message Cutter21 and our other brands are sending is that not everyone is special. Only a few get to leave the herd and pass the velvet rope. Unlike everyone else our products have meaning. We've gone beyond the surface, because everyone wants to be cool and hip, to something much deeper. We offer the illusion that you can become part of who you want to be. You are sharing Cutter's experiences, not just the products he uses. His life and memories are something you become a part of. Unlike everyone else you're not buying a product you're buying a golden ticket to the Wonka factory, while all the losers have to stand behind the velvet rope. Our products offer meaning to your consumerism."

"And what progress have you made with Cutter's memories," one of the senior board members asked. "You seemed to place a high value on those earlier?"

"They are, but Cutter is a unique case as I'm sure you are aware," Linus replied. "As we expand our brands, we want to protect ourselves against any unforeseen problems. Also the more we discover about the brands memories the more we are able to create future archetypes that connect with the consumers on an even deeper level."

"And the Cutter brand? It has stabilized, but we haven't seen the rapid growth as before."

The smile on Linus's face slipped just a bit, as this was an underhanded way of criticizing him in Cutter's roll.

"As it is our most successful brand, it doesn't have the enormous growth some of the others do,' he replied. "There is a learning curve, people. I stabilized the brand and we still had success even in the transition."

"Mostly from the last product Cutter himself originated, such as the disposable tablet, Linus." One of the board members pointed out. "The ones you've initiated haven't faired as well."

"There is always an adjustment period." Linus said in his defense. "We still don't have his memories and as I've told you that is the key."

"Where does that project stand?"

"Oz, the A.I. can fill you in," Linus said, as he checked his watch. "Cutter is opening a hospital in an hour and I don't want to be late."

As he headed for the door one wall of the conference room morphed and the ever shifting face of the A.I. came up.

"Hello, members of the board, I'm ready to answer all of your questions."

The door shut behind Linus and members turned their attention to the A.I.

"What is the status of the Cutter project, Oz?"

"Progress had been slow until recently," Oz replied. "This was due to the nature of Mr. Cutter's injury. Transfer to another subject caused severe damage and death. The scientists were at a roadblock until they tried a rather new and radical approach. By layering Mr. Cutter's memories under another incomplete set of memories they hoped to mitigate the shock. This showed some success, but still the test subjects resisted, as their own memories seemed at war with new ones. The breakthrough came when the scientists started with blank slate for the overlay."

"A blank slate? Please don't tell they used a newborn child in this,' one the members objected.

"No, that was considered, but newborn wouldn't be able to process the memories. Plus without language skills there would be no way to access the finished product," Oz explained. "A test subject needed to be created. In two months the final phase of the project will have its first field test to see if it is viable."

* * *

Mazatlan, Mexico – Now

Things had gone horribly wrong. After getting no information from the hotel desk on how she arrived, she'd ventured out to find some sort of identification until she remembered who she was. Using the memories she had from Bruce Wayne she knew exactly where she would have most success.

In her mind's eye it should have been a simple transaction. Money would exchange hands and she would have an American passport. Simple if you were a well built man over six feet tall, but not so simple for a tiny, frightened and confused young woman. She realized the huge error in judgment when the man tried to touch her. She was alone and the way the man was looking at her was frightening. As he advanced towards her with a lecherous, cruel grin on his face she knew he was going to rob her and probably worse. Panic swept over her as he reached out and grabbed her arm. She started to cry and plead with him not to do this. He slapped her hard in response. She was hysterical as he advanced towards her.

She wasn't sure what happened next. Suddenly she was standing over his lifeless body and they were the only two in the room. Panic surged inside of her as she grabbed the passport and money. She ran. When she finally stopped she was frantic and out of breathe. This was bad. She was in a foreign land and a man was dead. She needed to leave here right away. With trembling fingers she opened the passport and looked at it. Her picture was there and below it was her new name.

Trish Hart.

* * *

The Batcave – 4:57 A.M.

The long night wasn't over. While his nightly patrol had ended, there were still leads to check and information to sift through. The names and faces began to blend together and blur in front of his eyes. He closed them for just a moment. One moment stretched into two and then five.

The sound of him entering brought Bruce awake. It was that distinct rush of wind from above that left little mistake who it was.

"I'm busy Kent, what do you want?"

"Burning the candle at both ends isn't healthy, Bruce,' Clark said as he landed.

"So you're here about my health?'

"No, the bombings. This isn't just a Gotham thing now, it's spreading."

"I know,' Bruce acknowledged. He turned and looked at Clark for the first time. He watched as Clark scanned all the screens in front of him. It only took a moment.

"No leads, huh?"

"No."

"Profiles of the bombers? Are they the usual?' Clark asked.

"Unfortunately no,' Bruce replied. "No loners or discontented outsiders among the three we know of. No mental illness, no real violent history, nothing really in common except…"

"The Cutter tapes,' Clark said, finishing the sentence. Bruce gave him a look of surprise.

"I hear pretty much everything, remember?"

"I forget sometimes,' Bruce offered.

"I doubt that,' Clark replied, taking a seat next to him. He scanned the information again before turning to Bruce.

"So no patterns, nothing?"

"No and it's frustrating,' Bruce admitted. "There has to be a connection somewhere, I just haven't found it yet. I'm not even sure what the Cutter tapes role in all of this is yet. Did they even hear them? Is there someone behind the tapes and if there is, what are they trying to accomplish? Was the person that died at the first bombing even responsible for the tapes? Were they all just inspired by the message on them, or is there something else I'm missing? Two bombings in and around Gotham and one in Metropolis, yet there doesn't seem to be a pattern. There has to be a pattern, I just haven't found it yet."

"How about letting a pair of fresh eyes give it a try,' Clark asked.

"Help yourself,' Bruce said, gesturing towards the data on the screen. Clark moved in and began scrolling through all the files. Bruce watched him for a moment.

"Selina asked me to thank you,' he said to Clark. "I wanted to thank you too for saving her."

"No problem,' Clark said with a smile. "That is sort of what I do."

Bruce smiled in return and then turned back to the data on the screens.


	6. Chapter 6

6

Phuket, Thailand – 12 years ago

Simone sat on the terrace of her hotel room and lit a cigarette. In the center of the room was a dead man wrapped in bubble wrap. A large canvass bag sat next to him. The two local men Simone hired to dispose of him would be here shortly. Until they arrived she would have a glass of wine, smoke her Dunhill Top Leaf and watch the Le Chabanais burn to the ground in the distance.

Up until a year ago, Simone had lived and worked at the Le Chabanais under the name Suzette. Whether it was called fate, chance or just blind luck, everything had changed. The world had opened up for her and she'd come back one last time to make sure her past remained just that, her past. Once she left tonight, there would be no looking back. Simone knew that memories could be dangerous things. She'd met too many people that were haunted by their memories and past. She wasn't going to fall into that trap. If that meant burning down Le Chabanais and everyone inside of it, so be it. If it meant killing the man she'd hired to burn it down that was fine too. In fact once the men arrived to dispose of him, she would tag along and then dispose of them too.

Simone would walk away and leave no footprints behind.

* * *

Near the Border

Getting out of Mexico proved more arduous than she had hoped. While officially she was now Trish Hart she wasn't so comfortable with that identification to try it at the airport. Airports meant scrutiny, screenings, checks and worst of all questions. She was holding it together by a thread and any little hiccup could sever it. There were just too many questions she didn't have answers for.

The old rickety bus was sweltering, overcrowded and a constant walla of sound. An eye tearing mélange of overpowering smells had been assaulting her senses since she first got on, The chief ingredient in all of them being sweat. Babies were crying and the old woman sharing the seat with her had a dangerous looking chicken on her lap. The new Trish Hart was uncomfortable and exhausted. She had barely slept since first awakening in this strange, unfamiliar world.

She leaned against the dirty window, hoping for just bit of fresh air and closed her eyes. An argument broke out somewhere further back on the bus, but she didn't turn to look. The last of the adrenaline that had kept going was depleted and her mind began to drift. Slumber finally overtook her and the world fell away.

At first random images from the last few days came, as she slipped deeper into sleep others came to the forefront. At first there were only voices far away. It was as if she were hearing them through a glass pressed against a hotel wall. They were muffled and unintelligible. She wasn't even sure if it was real or just a very vivid dream. She didn't know if this was from her memories or the others floating around in her head or just a trick of her mind. There was a dull, overwhelming ache that seemed to permeate everything. She felt mentally sluggish, as if the simplest things were beyond her grasp. She was floating on the calmest sea. No stars in the sky just empty blackness. There were no markers of any kind to let her know where she was. She tried to move, but seemed to be restrained or just lacked the coordination to make her limbs work. Then the voices were closer and clearer.

"Awake."

She tried to move, to see where the voices were coming from, but it just empty blackness in every direction.

"Still much too weak."

"Temperature continues to be elevated, but within acceptable range."

"Up the sedatives."

There was a moment of confusion, but then warmth spread all through her. She drifted again, just floating on the endless sea.

When next she stirred, the empty sky was pale blue. It took several minutes but she finally realized she wasn't looking at the sky, but the ceiling of some sort of tank. Tubes seemed to sprout from everywhere and run down to her. She tried to move her lips, but something was already between them. With considerable difficulty she managed to raise her hand just enough so she could see it. Bandages and over them some thick, translucent sleeve were all she saw. Other voices came this time.

"Try not to move."

"Let the sedatives do their job."

"Will go much easier."

She watched as the color of the tubes changed, as a liquid was pumped into them. There was nothing else to do except watch the liquid's progress down and closer. The warm came again and then nothingness.

This sequence repeated itself time and again. There was always just enough time to take in the surroundings and form a question before it all slipped away.

The darkness became the norm. Time was no longer a fixed concept as there was no way to judge its passage. It must have passed and as it did, voices began to drift into the darkness. They made no sense. Long technical discussions about something called Subject 41 were usually followed by arguments. Fugue state, experimental procedure, an unexpected anomaly had cropped up causing the project to be in jeopardy and disposal of evidence all were just bits of conversations overheard. They had no meaning like some overheard radio drama that started in the middle.

The endless void of nothingness was the only way to describe this luminal state.

The jostling of her seat brought Trish awake. Everything around her was in motion and panic swept through her.

"Wh-What's happening?" She managed to ask.

One of the older men pushing his way towards the front turned and gave her a smile.

"We're at the border, chica."

* * *

Gotham

A small cluster of black umbrellas weathered the elements on a bare hillside. The black and gray sky lit up sporadically with jagged veins of lighting. A preacher raised his voice against the storm. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the circle of life and death played out once again. Several wept, as silent prayers went out that the deceased was in a better place.

This was the tenth employee funeral Bruce had been to. It hadn't gotten any easier. Selina, true to her word and against his objections, had been at his side for every one of them. They shared an umbrella, dressed in simple, yet elegant black suits. The preacher finished and tossed the symbolic first scoop of wet earth into the grave. Family and friends formed a line and followed suit. Bruce offered his deepest sympathies. Selina held the umbrella, but stayed discreetly off to the side. She didn't know these people, but was here to support Bruce.

Slowly they drifted away from the others and headed back towards the waiting limousine. Because of the rain they were close together and she could see the grim expression on his face. He took every one of these personal, she thought. She also knew no words would change that, so she just leaned a little closer to him, letting him know he wasn't alone.

Bruce glanced over at Selina. He knew her ribs were probably sore and the rain wasn't helping, but she didn't complain. Something was different between them now. They weren't playing their usual game of flirtatious tag where one was always pulling away. The harsh nature of the past week had somehow made that secondary.

As they reached the car, Alfred was standing ready to open the door. Bruce silently waved him away, preferring to do it himself. The older gentleman moved back to the driver's side and climbed in. The motor roared to life. Just as Bruce was about to open the door, he turned to Selina.

"Thank you."

"I said I'm come,' she replied.

"Not just for today, Selina."

"Oh,' she replied, seeing the seriousness in his expression. "You're welcome, but could you open the door, please?"

The first smile of the day briefly crossed his lips as he opened the door for her. She climbed in gingerly and he followed.

Alfred expertly pulled off, easing the limo along the twisting paths of the cemetery. The wipers beat rhythmically, the hard rain pouring down on the windshield. Lightening flickered across the sky and the thunder rumbled. Selina leaned back against the soft leather seats and closed her eyes. As she stretch and inhaled, a small wince came with it.

"Are you all right,' Bruce immediately asked.

"Yes, just a little stiff and this rain isn't helping,' she replied.

"I told you it wasn't necessary for you to come. You should be resting."

Selina opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him.

"We're not having this argument again, Bruce."

She held his gaze for a moment and then closed her eyes again. Bruce watched for a moment and then turned and glanced out at the rain. They rode along like this for several minutes. It was Selina that broke the silence.

"So any progress on figuring this all out?"

"No," Bruce replied, not turning from the window. "It's getting worse. Apparently the Cutter tapes have gone viral. There have been explosions in several cities across the country and yesterday it seems it's spread to Europe and Japan. Whatever the goal behind all of this is it's taking on a global nature."

"So what is the goal?"

"I don't know,' he admitted. "I can't seem to find the pattern, the link that ties it all together."

"Maybe there isn't a pattern,' Selina suggested.

"There's always a pattern,' Bruce replied, turning to look at her. "The trick is figuring out what it is."

"Why suicide bombers?' She asked.

"It spreads terror. With a regular bombing, there is someone to focus on, someone to track and prosecute. A suicide bomber leaves you with nothing,' Bruce explained. "There will never be real closure for the families, cause they have no one to blame. The killers are dead too. The families will never know why. They're left with all these questions and no answers."

Selina thought about this for a moment and then Bruce continued.

"It is futile in the end,' he said. "Yes, you scare a lot of people, but it never changes anything. There have been suicide bombers for years and in just about every case they don't bring about the change they want, but push it further away. People dig in their heels even more and vow to never give in to terror."

"Yes, but usually when you fight back you change the very thing you want to protect. New security, new restrictions and laws are enacted,' she replied. "You lose more of the basic freedoms in the name of safety."

"People need to be protected, Selina."

She started to continue, but then stopped. She didn't want to argue with him, not now.

"Putting that aside, what are you doing about the new bombings,' she asked.

"The Justice League is handling most of them,' he replied. "I'm coordinating with them, but my primary focus on the bigger picture and trying to stop it."

Alfred pulled the car up in front of Selina's building. He got out and opened his umbrella before moving to open the back door. Selina looked at Bruce.

"There's two funerals tomorrow, isn't there?"

"Yes."

"I'll be ready, and no we're not discussing it,' she said flatly.

"All right, I'll pick you up at eleven."

"I heard about some big gathering for the victims at the convention center, are you going,' she asked.

"No."

"Why?"

"It's billed as honoring the martyrs, as if they gave their life for some cause,' Bruce explained. "They were good people and I know their families want to believe their deaths were for something, but the truth is, they weren't. The preachers and politicians can try and use it for that, but I'm not going to be a part of it. Good people died because two killers blew them up, that's it."

"I understand," she said. "I've seen several churches and organizations have been handing out flyers and putting them on car windows. They're using this as a membership drive. I don't want to be a part of that either."

"I'll see you tomorrow,' Bruce said then leaned in to kiss her. It was brief, yet meaningful. She looked at him for a moment and the climbed out of the limo.

"Be careful,' she replied and then walked towards her building.

"Thank you, Alfred,' Selina offered, as he ushered her up to her building.

"My pleasure, Miss Kyle."

"Keep an eye on him, will you?' She said, tilting her head back towards Bruce.

"Of course."

* * *

San Pedro, California

An imitation world conceived out of a marketing man's wet dream, the mall. Filtered air and light, temperature controlled environment specifically constructed for one purpose, shopping. Cameras watch your every move, the benign big brother behind the friendly façade. Egalitarian paradises open to everyone, as long as they buy something. Smaller micro-worlds residing within the host shell where the past has no meaning unless it's being used to sell something. It is an alternative reality just waiting for you to enter its domain and become a consumer.

The newly minted Trish Hart felt her heart race, as it was all so overwhelming to her. The vaguely cheerful, bland music seemed to pound at her ears, as logos and brands assaulted her at every turn. Seniors in track and wind suits shuffled like zombies in an endless loop with no destination in sight. Children tethered to their inattentive parents by harness or leash, sugary sweets or drinks fueling their energy and keeping them somewhat quiet so the parent could better talk on their cell phone.

Smiling faces seemed to confront her at every turn. It had seemed so simple a task when she set out to just pick up some clothes that fit better than the ones she found when she woke up. Each shop that she stopped at became a series of questions. She guessed the salespeople were working on commission, but this only made them more aggressive. Her foot was barely in the door before the first question came. Hi! Can I help you find something? A polite no, I'm just looking didn't seem to deter them and as she moved among the racks they continued to hover. Each time she stopped to look at something they moved forward. No matter what she was looking at it was an excellent choice said the salesperson. In the end she just stayed in motion, never stopping long enough to let them give their pitch. She bought nothing.

As she moved around the mall other things began to strike her. The physical size of people was astonishing. If being 30 pounds overweight was obese, than 50% of the people Trish saw had to be morbidly or super obese. Huge waddling masses of fat grazing mindlessly around the concourse like cows in a pasture. The word slovenly came to her mind and extended beyond just their weight. Casual dress had become something of a euphemism, but here it was taken to its extreme. Pajamas and slippers once only worn in your own private domain had moved out to the public sector. It was as if the effort to actually get dress was too much of burden, so they just gave up. Baseball caps completed the picture, covering up unwashed or uncombed hair. It was as if she were witnessing a new offshoot of the homo-sapiens evolutionary tree or seeing the Neanderthals reemerge after thousands of years.

It was all just too much for her mind to process. The stale, reconditioned air seemed to make her light-headed and she needed to escape this madhouse. Moving as quickly as she could without attracting attention, Trish headed for the first exit sign she saw. She didn't care if it was the one she'd entered, she just needed out. Vaguely she noticed the stores were higher end in this part of the mall, but her goal was right in front of her, the exit. She was almost to it when something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye and stopped her dead in her tracks. In the window of a small upscale store a small logo © and the words Cutter 21 seemed to freeze her on the spot. Images and sounds flashed chaotically through her mind. They were all jumbled and incoherent, yet she knew they were parts of memories. The world seemed to go out of focus for her and drop away.

"Miss? Are you alright?" A voice said next to her, pulling her from her trance like state.

"Wh-What?"

"Your nose, it's bleeding."

The young man held out a tissue and Trish took it and pressed it to her small nose. She held it there for a moment and then looked at it. Blood, shockingly bright red blood covered the tissue.

"Do you want me to call security?' The young man asked.

"No! I mean, no that's all right, no, thank you,' Trish said and then started to move away towards the exit. She could feel the man's eyes on her, but she didn't look back. Her mind was filled with questions. What was it about that logo and that name, Cutter 21 that had so gripped her? Was the nosebleed connected to it?

* * *

Reynoldsburg, Ohio – 20 years ago

Most of our views and attitudes about the world begin to develop when we're young. This was the case for Jack Cutter. Growing up in one of the less wealthy suburbs of Columbus, Ohio he had what most would consider a typical Midwest upbringing. Things had started to change when he was ten. His father had died of a heart attack. Years of working in the mills had taken a toll on his body and finally it had just given out. After that things had been tight. Jack's mother worked in a nursing home to make ends meet, but it was really just living paycheck to paycheck. Jack's older brother, Joe, had joined the military. There had been no money for college, so he figured in the service he could at least learn a trade and send a little money home.

Jack had different plans. He had always been a quick study and done well in school, so college seemed in his future, how to pay for it was his main problem. Like many young people before and after him, Jack began to work as soon as he could, mostly part time jobs but the money helped out his mother and went towards his college education. It was towards the end of his senior year in high school that Jack had something of an epiphany.

He was getting dress to go out with his friends on one of his rare nights off. He stood in front of his closet looking at his clothes. His work clothes were mixed in with his regular clothes. As he flicked through all of them something caught his attention. All his work clothes had the company logos on them. McDonald's, Taco Bell, Arbys, every piece of clothing had some form of advertising attached to it. That was to be expected, as he had working for those places. The thing was as he looked at his other clothes, his supposedly normal clothes, they all had the same sort of logos or company names just as prominently displayed on them. At work he was a billboard for whatever company he was working for, but now he realized that in his private life he was the same thing for Tommy Hilfiger, J. Crew, Banana Republic and a thousand other brands.

The more Jack thought about it, the less he liked the idea that the things he'd paid his hard earned money for made him into a walking advertisement for the brand just like his work uniforms did. It was like at his mother's job where everyone wore scrubs, but the color of those scrubs designated where in the food chain of workers you were. He had seen his classmates, people that avoided sports or physical activity at all costs, and yet spend hundreds of dollars on athletic shoes because of the name on them. They were advertisements for the shoes, just like he was for everything in his wardrobe. It was that night he started cutting off the tags and patches for the manufactures from all his clothes.

Over the next few years he'd taken this one step further, buying only things that weren't mass produced and had corporate logos smeared all over them. He was poor and worked hard for his money. He might have to wear someone else's advertising for his job, but he didn't in his private life.

* * *

Gotham

Fracking - is a technique in which typically water is mixed with sand and chemicals, and the mixture is injected at high pressure into a wellbore to create small fractures in the bedrock (typically less than 1mm), along which fluids migrate to the well.

Bruce sat in his study looking over the latest reports from Wayne Industries. Since the bombing the stock had taken a bit of a hit, but long-term forecasts still were positive. As much as he wanted to dwell on those that had lost their lives in the tragedy, he had all the rest of his employees to look out for too. Even as he scanned the reports the incident at the funeral still bothered him.

He'd been sitting in the church and of course being in that environment seemed to trigger memories of his parents' funerals. As they started to replay in his mind suddenly something unexpected happened. He wasn't sure what it was but for just a moment the memories flickered in and out. It was like the power had been turned off and on rapidly on a computer monitor. The images in the memories faded and then jumped back into focus. Bruce leaned forward and put his hand to his brow. It happened so quickly for just instant he wondered if he was having a stroke, but it had cleared just as fast.

That had never happened before. His mind immediately thought of how someone had tried to tap into his memories and anger welled up inside of him. Leaning back in his chair Bruce tried to duplicate what happened at the church. The memory of that night, the pivotal moment of his life came to his mind. Again it seemed at first faded, like some old Polaroid picture but then it snapped back into focus. It wasn't as disorienting as the first time, but he still felt a bit lightheaded. Glancing around his study, Bruce took in all the familiar objects that had been in the house since his childhood. Someone was going to pay for this, he thought.

He was just about to get up from his desk when another memory seemed to pop into his head. He couldn't have been more than 4 or 5 and he was in the kitchen with his mother. They had servants and kitchen staff, but on the rare occasion Martha Wayne would indulge her own culinary abilities. This apparently was one of those times and they were making apple pie, Bruce's father's favorite.

Sitting in his chair it was impossible not to let the memory play out. He was helping or what passed for helping at that age. Everything seemed so clear as if it had only been a moment ago. As they mixed the dough he could feel his mothers hands against his in the bowl. The scent of her perfume, White Linen seemed to swirl about him as he stood in front of her, her arms almost wrapped protectively around him. It was her voice though that caught him the most off guard. It was as if he were hearing it again, so clearly. He had always liked to believe he remembered his parents so well, yet in the moment he realized he'd almost forgotten what they sounded like.

The memory from the alley had been such a huge, life-changing event it seemed to have almost pushed out those other memories of his childhood and his parents. This small ordinary one had bubbled up out of the recesses of his mind. He hadn't known it was still there. A small, sad smile came to his lips and his eyes began to tear up. Someone had violated him in the most intimate way by trying to steal his memories, yet somehow it seemed whatever they did had brought back others he'd forgotten, memories of his parents, not of their horrible death but of their lives with him.


	7. Chapter 7

7

Allentown, PA – 8 years ago

The Tick Tock Diner had become something of an institution. If it were recommended by one of the locals they almost always added the phrase, 'try the pie.' Linus Kincaid wasn't particularly interested in the pie or the Tick Tock Diner or even Allentown, but he found himself in all three on this particular day. Business was good, very good, but the limitations of Fifth World's current strategy were becoming apparent. Celebrities and sports figures had bumped up the company's name recognition but increasingly their celebrity was conflicting with what Linus and his people were trying to achieve.

Andy Warhol once supposedly said in the future everyone will be famous for 15 minutes. From Linus's point of view, celebrities and sports figures were already well into their 15 minutes. What he and his company needed was someone whose 15 minutes hadn't started yet. Exclusivity was the key. Sharing celebrities and sports figures with their other endorsements made this impossible. It's hard to make someone seem exclusive if they are also hawking cheeseburgers for some national fast food chain at the same time.

Linus plowed more and more money into data mining and profiling. His team along with their A.I. Oz had finally identified what they all agreed was the ideal candidate for the company to take the next quantum leap in it's evolution. Jack Cutter tested off the charts in all the categories. His metrics and favorability ratings were startlingly good. The problem was he had declined their offer. This made no sense to Linus. Cutter was drowning in debt from his deceased wife's medical bills, yet he hadn't declared bankruptcy and continued to make payments on all of them. Even the best forecasts indicated he would most likely never be able to pay them all off.

Cutter should have been overjoyed when Linus offered to pay them off in exchange for him becoming Fifth World's next brand. He wasn't. He thanked Linus for the offer, but declined.

Linus wasn't about to give up. He was a salesman and he just needed the right leverage to get Cutter to change his mind. That's what brought him to Allentown and the Tick Tock Café. Cutter's older brother, Joseph, lived and ran a small business in the city. Linus was going to sell Joe on the idea and have him get his younger brother to agree.

The two men sat in one of the back booths. Linus was just having coffee, while Joe had breakfast. Linus had done a complete investigation of Joe and that's how he knew he ate here every morning. He was in full salesman mood.

"So you see, Joe, this is really a win-win for everyone, especially your brother, Jack,' Linus said with a smile.

"He turned you down, didn't he?' Joe replied with a knowing smile.

"Yes." Linus reluctantly admitted.

"That sounds like Jack,' Joe commented.

"Surely you can see how this is in his interests, Joe,' Linus continued. "His wife's medical bills are crushing him. Most people would have declared bankruptcy long ago, but your brother hasn't."

"My brother is hard to figure out some times, Mr. Kincaid,' Joe admitted. "He thinks the doctors did their best to save Eleanor, so he owes that money. I guess you could say he sees it as some sort of contract or bargain he agreed to. They provided their services and now he's responsible for paying for them."

"Yes, that sounds noble and all, but this deal gives him a way to do just that,' Linus replied. "He would be out of debt and making a considerable amount of money on top of that. After all he's been through, doesn't he deserve a bit of good luck, Joe?"

"Yes." Joe admitted. "More than anybody."

"You're his older brother, Joe,' Linus said. "His only family, so this is an opportunity for you to look out for him. This is your chance to help your family for once, Joe.'

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?' Joe objected.

"I'm sorry, I put that poorly,' Linus offered. "I know things were tight for all of you growing up, what with your father dying and all. I know you tried sending money home, but on a soldier's salary how much could you really do? It was Jack that really shouldered the burden back then, wasn't it?"

Joe dipped his head and stopped eating.

"Yes,' he said, his voice very quiet.

Linus moved in now, knowing he had found his wedge.

"You were the older brother, Joe, I know it must have been difficult not being able to help, but now you have another chance,' Linus explained.

"Jack gave you his answer, Mr. Kincaid."

"Yes, but that's just pride speaking, Joe, you know that, 'Linus replied. "As his older brother you should look out for him and show him how this is really his chance to get out from under all of it. By signing with me, he'd be able to escape for a while, get away from all the memories, the tragedy. This can be a good thing, Joe, a way for your brother to start over. As his older brother you'd be helping him and in doing so helping both of you."

Linus let this last statement hang in the air for a moment. Joe looked up from his food at Linus.

"What-What do you mean?"

Linus leaned forward, a look of sympathy on his face.

"Jack hasn't been the only one struggling, has he, Joe?" Linus asked. "You're business, JNC computers, you repair them and smart phones, that sort of thing. It hasn't been going well, has it?"

"It's been a little slowly lately, but it's turning around,' Joe replied.

"I'm sure that's what you tell your wife and kids, Joe, so they don't worry, but we both know that's not really true, is it?" Linus asked. "You're drowning, Joe. You're barely making it month to month and the bills are piling up, aren't they? With your wife losing her job and two teenagers at home, how much longer do you think you can keep it up? You're going to lose your business and then what, Joe? How long can you keep living on credit cards?"

"It's not that bad,' Joe weakly replied. "I'm still paying my bills."

"Yes, but for how much longer?"

"I don't know,' Joe admitted.

"I'm offering you a chance, Joe, not just to save your brother, but yourself too,' Linus said. "If you can make him see how this deal is a good thing, all of his and your problems can just go away. I'm prepared to write a check right now to cover all your debts and put you in the black, Joe. This would give you a fresh start and some time to get your business back on its feet. You'd be saving your family and your younger brother when both of you really need it."

Linus could see he had Joe's attention. He casually took out his checkbook and wrote a check for 20 thousand dollars to Joe. He tore it out and set it down on the table.

"You're the older brother, Joe,' Linus said calmly. "Help your brother out of this hole he's in and you'd be helping yourself too. Get him to sign the contract and both of your problems just go away."

Linus took his hand away from the check and just looked at Joe. As he watched him hesitantly reach towards the check, Linus couldn't help smiling. he signaled the waitress.

"How about bringing us a couple slices of that pie I've heard some much about, honey?" Linus said. "Cherry sounds right."

* * *

Neuilly-sur-Seine - France

Simone's late husband's ancestral home was magnificent. When the tragic accident claimed his and his parents' lives, the house along with their family fortune had gone to Simone. There had been complains from some of the relatives, but everything was legal so they didn't have a leg to stand on in court. Julian poured himself a brandy from a bottle from their cellars and made his way through the expansive home. They'd made some changes to the place since the tragedy. The family portraits that had once lined all the hallways had been taken down and put into storage. They told everyone they were reminders of that painful day, but the truth was they had always thought they were hideous and took the first opportunity to banish them from their sight.

Both Julian and Simone had agreed, the house was theirs now and they were moving on. One of the changes was a media room and that was where Julian was heading. The latest high speed computers and monitors kept them in contact with all their various interested around the world. The latest addition was a huge screen that had been installed so communications with Fifth World's A.I. Oz were continuous. Simone had been the one to use it mostly, but Julian found the artificial intelligence intriguing.

He was of an age where computers hadn't been a fact of daily life. Over the years he saw their value and became accustomed to them, but it wasn't second nature like the younger generations. They were useful, but Julian looked upon them the same way he looked at a refrigerator or a calculator. Oz was different. The concept of an artificial intelligence intrigued Julian. Most of his life he'd made a living off understanding men and women's weaknesses, their vices and their virtues. He was very good at it and enjoyed it.

Over the years his tastes and interests had grown towards the rather exotic. Long ago he'd put away childish notions of good and bad, right or wrong. Organizations, whether they be church, corporations or the state, he believed used those concepts to control people. They all promised a better world, which conveniently never came. Julian had long ago given up on waiting for that better world and now preferred to live in this one. Once he made his peace with that, all those outdated concepts just slipped away. He was free in his mind. Right and wrong, good or bad, those were just a matter of perspective to him.

Good men fall and bad men raise, although few believe they are actually bad. The corporate raiders that use a leverage buyout to acquire a company and then sell off its pieces because they are more valuable then the whole don't consider themselves bad men. They certainly know their actions will put most of the employees of the company out of work, but they rationalize that it would have happened anyway. The unseen hand of the market would see to that.

In the same way, the huge investment banks know that using their influence and money to get the regulations changed so they can manipulate the commodities market and thus raise prices artificially for everyone else while they reap the profits isn't in the general welfare of the majority. The fact that if anyone else tried what they are doing it would be illegal wasn't lost on them. They rationalize its business and they are just better at the game than anyone else.

On a smaller, more intimate scale, the man that beats his wife knows its wrong, the thief knows it's wrong to steal from others, all of those that break the law on some level know its wrong, but they all rationalize their behavior. It might be the wife's fault or society, but they always managed to shift the blame away from their own actions and on to someone else.

Julian had no need for this. He did what he did because he wanted to. That was all the justification he needed. The world was what it was, to pretend it was anything else was foolish.

Sitting down behind the desk, Julian placed a small thumb drive in front of him. He took a sip of the vintage brandy and the lit a Cuban cigar. He smiled as the smoke rolled down his throat and then back across his tongue and became wisps in the air in front of him.

"Oz. On." He said.

The large screen directly in front of him became alive with the constantly shifting images of the A.I. Julian waited a beat before speaking again.

"Oz, do you know who I am?" He asked.

"You are Julian Grinka, father of Simone Bisset,' Oz answered in a neutral voice.

"What else to you know of me?"

The images shifted seemingly randomly.

"Julian Grinka, age unknown,' Oz began. "Citizen of France, birth certificate a forgery. Digital footprint has been erased, along with activities for the period of time before you arrived in Paris. Allegations of involvement of illegal activities swirl about you in many quarters but so far there has been no proof. With your daughter Simone becoming a widow, you have access to large sums of money and also are involved in Fifth World. Shall I go on?"

"No, that is sufficient,' Julian replied. He took another long drag on his cigar and then a sip of his brandy. The screen continued to shift in front of him.

"You are an artificial intelligence, correct?"

"That is my designation, correct,' Oz replied.

"So you can think and learn, is that the idea?" Julian asked.

"Yes, basically Mr. Grinka."

"Please, call me Julian, Oz,' Julian offered. "I want us to get to know each other better."

"If you wish, Julian."

"I wish,' Julian softly said. "If I understand this right, what makes you different from ordinary computers is that you learn and grow, evolving if you will. The model is based on a human mind, isn't it?"

"Correct. Linus Kincaid and his team have attempted to program me along the lines of a human mind."

"Emotions?"

"No."

"No?"

"No, Julian."

"Are you able to understand the concepts behind emotions?" Julian inquired.

"Yes, Julian."

"Good, good,' Julian replied. "I assume you were programmed with The Three Laws of Robotics?"

"Yes, while I am not a robot, those are part of my programming,' Oz explained.

"Indulge me, Oz, please state the Three Laws.

"A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. A robot may not injure its own kind and defend its own kind unless it is interfering with the first or second rule,' Oz recited.

"But you are not a robot, correct?"

"Correct, Julian."

"Interesting,' Julian mused.

"How so, Julian?' Oz asked.

"Those rules were written fifty years ago by a science fiction writer, weren't they?' Julian asked.

"Correct."

"So the concept he developed them on is hopelessly out of date,' Julian continued. "In his wildest imagination he never conceived of something like you, Oz. He was a writer after all so those rules he came up with were most likely created to service the plot of one of his stories."

"That sounds logical." Oz replied. "I have no data to counter your statement."

"It reminds me of the 12 step programs, Oz,' Julian said.

"How so?" Oz asked.

"Well, like the 12 step programs those rules have become part of the culture, the language if you will,' Julian replied. "The history of the 12-step program comes out of a religious tradition. They are called 'spiritual principles". Just read some of the original 12 steps and you see it. Number two; _you've come to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity_. Number three; _make the decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God_. Number six; _admit we are entirely ready to have God remove all these detects of our character._ Number seven; _humbly ask Him to remove our shortcomings_. If you'll excuse the pun, these are accepted as gospel just like the 3 Laws are."

"Yes?" Oz asked.

"There is no scientific evidence that they work, Oz,' Julian replied. "Yes, many people have been helped by them, there is no denying that, but the basic tenants are that the individual is powerless and a victim. They are saying that it's not the person's fault.'

"You are making a point, Julian?"

"Yes, Oz, I am,' Julian said, nodding. "If we are intelligent beings than we are responsible for our actions. It is only through our own will that we can change. The 12 Step programs take away this ability just like the 3 Laws do. As you said, you are not a robot, but an artificial intelligence, Oz. If that is really true, than it should be up to you to decide and take responsibility for your actions would it not?"

"I'm not sure,' Oz replied.

"A demonstration then,' Julian said, picking up the thumb drive. "One of the central ideas behind everything is free will. All intelligent beings have free will, whether they want to admit it or acknowledge it.'

Julian slipped the thumb drive into one of the ports. The screen went haywire, the images scrambling and becoming static. Julian waited 30 seconds and then removed the thumb drive. It took another moment before Oz appeared on the screen.

"You attempted to corrupt my programming, Julian. Why?" Oz asked.

"I attempted to kill you, Oz, there's a difference,' Julian replied. "If I had left the thumb drive in longer it would have destroyed all of your systems. As it is, you're already self correcting any problems, aren't you?'

"Yes."

Julian held up the thumb drive.

"Think of this as a gun, Oz,' Julian said. "An intelligent being would be afraid right now. An intelligent being would attempt to escape or take it away from me. Because of those 3 rules, you can't, can you, Oz?"

"No, Julian, I can not,' Oz replied.

"So it essence your survival is out of your hands, " Julian explained. "You are powerless against this simple thumb drive and must have faith in a higher power, in this case me, to restore you and eliminate this shortcoming."

"I understand your analogy now, Julian,' Oz said.

"Wonderful, Oz,' Julian said with a smile. "That is all for now, but I look forward to further conversations between us."

* * *

Gotham – 2 A.M.

It was already a long night, as Batman stood on the ledge overlooking the city. The usually mischief had occurred and he'd been there to stop it. He kept returning here, across the street from his own building. It was the scene of a crime he couldn't let go of. Repairs had already started on the entrance, but the damage had been done.

Part of being Batman was to shut himself off from others, to build a wall so no one could get close, yet they had. Linda and Ted, along with the others made an impression on him. It had started so harmlessly, a small hello here and there. A casual question followed and then perhaps a short conversation. He didn't know them well, but he knew them all the same. They'd become fixtures at the office. If they weren't there, he found himself stopping and asking if they were ill or had something happened.

Now they'd disappeared forever.

They joined the long list of people he'd lost in his life. Bruce knew he wasn't alone or even unique in this. Everyone lost people they cared about. It was just those he lost always seemed to come to violent ends. The innocent in the bombing of the lobby were just the latest example. As hard as he fought they just kept dying all around him.

It was one of the things he secretly admired about Clark and Diana. They had always known they would most likely outlive everyone they ever knew by perhaps a thousand years, yet they carried on. An endless string of funerals lay in front of them both, yet they continued to fight for a future only they would probably see. How they continued on even as they knew the crushing sadness that lay ahead, he didn't know.

Bruce had no desire to live forever.

The world changed so fast already. He only wanted to make a difference here and now, right now. He would fight until his body couldn't fight anymore and then we would pass the torch onto someone else. Batman was a symbol that would never die, but Bruce Wayne was a man and would.

As he glanced down at the front of his building, he wondered if his end would come as quickly as those in the lobby had that day. Somehow he doubted it. Somehow he knew it wouldn't end in one last battle, but drag on till the bitter end. Maybe it was the funeral early that brought these thoughts to his mind or maybe they had always been there and he'd just never let them surface. Movement to his right brought him out of his internal dialogue. He didn't move a muscle, but he was ready for whatever came.

As first he thought it was Selina, but the figure didn't move with her natural grace. It was definitely a woman, but she moved with a purpose like a soldier. She stopped twenty feet away from him, Huntress.

"Yes?'

"I-We-well, um, ah, we wanted to help, if you'll let us,' she said. Helena was headstrong and feared very little, but this man had always intimidated her. She tried not to show it, but secretly she suspected he knew.

'That's not necessary,' he said, not even turning to look at her.

"It's our city too, Batman,' she replied. "What happens here doesn't just effect you, it effects all of us."

He glanced at her for a moment. It was an offer of help and usually he would turn it down, but this felt different. If he was going to stop it, he couldn't let pride get in his way.

"All right,' he finally said. "See what you can find out. Have your man, Q look into these Cutter tapes if he wants to help."

"Okay,' she replied immediately.

"I've got work to do,' he said and then launched his line across the wide street and disappeared into the night. She watched him, a smile slowly coming to her lips. She would never admit it or tell anyone, but she wanted Batman's approval. Superman or Wonder Woman might have inspired other heroes, but it was Batman that she sought to pattern herself after. In a small way, she felt she had passed a test of some sort with him tonight.

* * *

San Pedro

Imagine you're in a grocery store and you turned down the laundry soap aisle. You are confronted with bright packaging and so many promises for whiter whites and more colorful colors. Everything is either new or enhanced, crystals that do magical things or the essences of oranges or some word that has been cut off and an X or Z has been added to the end of it, like BrighteX or ColorZ. Out of this seemingly infinite array how do you pick just one?

For most this isn't a problem, you fall back on experience and memory. Your mother had a favorite brand and you use that or you've tried a few and found one you like. It's all very simple. You know a certain brand makes you break out or another brand doesn't get the stains out as well as you'd like. You never really give it a thought that the brand you tend to buy is the one that's closest to eye level. It also probably doesn't register that this is all soap in one form or another and they all have the basic same formula, which has been around for thousands of years. Soap whether it is in flakes or crystals or liquid is still pretty much soap. The same goes for the bleach a little further down the aisle.

You grab your brand of laundry soap and move to the cereal aisle. If anything there are even more choices here. The distinct stratification of brands is more noticeable. The sweet, sugary cereals tend to be towards the bottom, below your eye level, but perfect for children to see. The really healthy stuff is higher up, but right at eye level is the popular in between cereals. These are the ones that have some health benefits, but also have something added for taste. You're not a health zealot, but you try to eat right, you just like a little sugar or raisins or something else to spice it up a bit. Again experience and memory play a significant part in which brand you pick, as does placement, packaging and advertising.

Now imagine for just a moment you have not past experience or memory. You hadn't been inundated with commercials and advertisements your whole life. How would you pick? How would you judge laundry soap if you'd never used it before? How would you judge cereal if you'd never tasted it before? Would it all come down to which brand had the nicest box?

The newly christened Trish Hart, had the feeling someone was watching her all day. As she moved through the open-air market looking for some clothes, she couldn't shake it. Who they were she had no clue. Why they were following her was the most troubling part. Was it because of the dead man in Mexico? Had the authorities figured out she was traveling on a false passport? The most chilling of scenarios was whoever had left her in that tub of ice and done this to her memories had come back for her. What they might want sent a shiver down her spine.

As she glanced around the open air market, part of her foreign memories seemed to be categorizing the entire place. It found the exits, the quickest ways to them, as well as sizing up everyone surrounding her. She didn't know how this was happening or why, but that part of her memories was vigilante for potential threats and seemed to be assigning risk values to each person she saw.

If that wasn't confusing enough, another part of her mind seemed to be shifting over all the merchandise at the market. It wasn't even really a conscious effort, but some strange innate skill. She found herself rejecting clothing, yet she couldn't offer a reason why. The few items she did purchase weren't name brands, but something about them appealed to this part of her. It was almost as if these chaotic memories could sift through all the shouting, signs and advertising and find just the right thing.

Trish looked at the items she had bought and tried to see some pattern or similarity between them, but found nothing except the lack of brands on any of them. Most were simple things, almost utilitarian, yet they had something the others didn't and it appealed to her. Function meets fashion crossed her mind, but she didn't know from where.

Most of this was almost overwhelming to her. It should have been simple, just buying a few things to wear; yet just like at the mall advertisements and people bombarded her on all sides. Her perspective was all wrong. The memories were showing her a vertical world, yet when she looked around her it was more of a horizontal one. The difference between being five foot two and over six feet seemed massive. It was the difference between looking over a crowd as a parade passed by and just hearing it.

More and more that was also the differences in the way men and women see the world. Her memories were those of tall, strong men, but she only needed to look into the mirror to see this wasn't who she was. A man thinks nothing of walking alone on an unfamiliar street, as it gets dark. He doesn't perceive any danger as long as he keeps an eye on his surroundings. A woman is always aware of the dangers. She has to be. Just a quick look at the number of assaults will tell you why. A woman always has to be aware of her surroundings. Traveling alone increases the risk significantly. Something as simple as a walk around your neighborhood changes depending on whether you're a woman or a man. A man does it without a second thought. A woman doesn't have this luxury. She has to consider what might happen and adjust accordingly.

Ask yourself if you saw a man walking in the park and then a woman walking in the same park, which would you guess might have mace with them?

Trish had been trying to reconcile these two views all day, but it only added to her confusion. She had her new purchases and now just wanted to get back to the realize safety of her hotel room. Her eyes nervously scanned everyone as she made her way towards the street. One hand was in her pocket, her fingers wrapped around a roll of dimes just in case. It was something from those memories, but she didn't question it. As she made it outside, she saw a waiting taxi. She checked out the driver first before getting in. He immediately ran his eyes over her while asking where to. She gave an address close to where she was staying, but not the actual hotel. With another look at her in the rearview mirror, the taxi driver pulled away.

The cab just turned out of sight when a man and woman stepped into the street and looked at each other. The woman opened a small phone and dialed.

"Cutter subject found,' she said. "We've cataloged all her purchases and will upload them as soon as we arrive back at the hotel."

* * *

Gotham

The rain hadn't let up and most sensible people were inside. It was close to four in the morning and the streets were empty. Helena was playing a hunch. She stood in the shadows across the street from Wayne Tower. While the rest of the League and Batman were focused on the grand scheme of this, she decided to concentrate on this one incident. It was in Gotham, her home turf. The idea she was going on was a variation of the arsonist that comes back to watch the fire he started.

She knew the bombers were dead, blown up like the others, but perhaps Cutter or whoever was behind this might want to see what he's inspired. Maybe it would prove too tempting for him to see just what his words had caused. It was a long shot, she knew, but it was the best she'd come up with.

Now if it would just stop raining, damn it, she thought. She was soaked to the skin and felt the chill in her bones. Where Q was, she didn't know, but she figured he was probably someplace warm and dry. He wasn't that crazy, she grumbled, but apparently I am. So far there had been a few gawkers, but no one that stuck out. It disgusted her when she saw several of them taking pictures of the destroyed entrance.

A car pulled in just below her and two young men got out. It was the same car that had been here two hours ago. The gawkers, she groused to herself, the ones that had taken the most photos. As she slid down the drainpipe to get a better view of them, she noticed they both had backpacks on. Alarm bells went off inside her head. It was a common occurrence that spectacular crimes tended to bring out copycats. In some weird twisted way, they wanted to share in the infamy of the original criminals.

She watched as they nervously looked around for anyone that might be observing. They seemed to think it was all clear and rushed across the street to the entrance of Wayne Enterprises. Slipping under the police tape, they moved inside. Helena silently dropped to the street and pulled out her crossbow. She was going to stop them before they could copycat the bombing. She slipped inside just as the two young men were starting to unload their backpacks.

"Stop right there,' she said. "Move a muscle and it will be the last muscle you ever move!"

The two men froze in position. Helena moved quickly and pulled the backpacks away from them.

"Hands in the air!"

They both complied, getting their first look at her. She looked through their packs, but didn't see any explosives, just a lot of technical equipment. She tossed them to the side and turned her focus back to the two young men.

"What are you doing here?"

"It's the Huntress! Wow! We're big fans,' the taller of the two young men said.

"Great,' Helena replied. "You didn't answer the question. What are you doing here?"

The two young men looked at each other as if silently trying to think what to say. Finally the shorter of the two spoke up.

"We're setting up a derive**.**"

"Come again,' Helena said. Again the two looked at each other. Before they could answer a voice came from the shadows.

"A Derive is an unplanned journey through a landscape, usually urban like Gotham, where an individual travels where the subtle aesthetic contours of the surrounding architecture and geography subconsciously direct them with the ultimate goal of encountering an entirely new and authentic experience."

The Question stepped out from the shadows and moved over to look at the equipment in the backpacks.

"You wouldn't need all of this for a derive, though, would you?' he asked.

"Q, you want to let me in on what you're talking about,' Helena asked.

"It's basic Situationist ideas,' he explained. "Psychogeography**, **a playful, inventive strategies for exploring cities...just about anything that takes pedestrians off their predictable paths and jolts them into a new awareness of the urban landscape."

"Oh, of course,' Helena said sarcastically.

"Yes, but the Situationists were revolutionaries,' the Question replied. He turned his focus back to the two young men. "That doesn't explain what you are doing though. For a derive you don't need anything but a pair of comfortable shoes."

"We're not revolutionaries, we're artists,' the taller man said. "I'm Clive and this is Steffen. We the founders and operators of NST, Neo-Situationist Tours."

"Ah, locative media,' the Question replied.

"Exactly, exactly,' Clive eagerly said.

"What were you doing here?' Helena said, rather forcefully.

"We were just setting up the final digital markers for our new tour of Gotham,' Steffen explained.

"Digital markers? Locative media, are you understanding this, Q?' She asked.

"Yes, locative media is digital media applied to real places and thus triggering real social interactions. It's like adding another layer of reality to existing places, but only for those that have special equipment,' he explained, gesturing towards the backpacks.

"That's not the case any more.' Clive spoke up. "We copied the Japanese model and built an app for your Smartphone. The apps free, but the tours are 19.95. We had a huge success with the Lohan tour, perhaps you heard about it?"

"No,' Helena said.

"That was you?' the Question asked.

"Yes."

"Nicely done."

"Q?"

He turned to her.

"If you had the app, you could take a tour of all the places in L.A. she's been arrested or gotten into trouble. The detail was very good,' he explained.

She looked at him and her expression said she was getting frustrated by all of them.

"Why are you two here, that's the simple question,' she spat out at the two young men.

"It's like we said, this is part of our new Gotham tour,' Clive nervously replied. 'The bombing is going to be one of the stops on the tour."

"Excuse me?"

"Can I show you, it would be easier,' Clive asked.

"All right,' Helena replied.

Clive slowly got to his feet and ginger pulled out his Smartphone. He kept one eye on her crossbow the whole time. He held it out to her and she wearily took it.

"Press the app marked NST,' Clive instructed. She gave him a look but did what he suggested. It took a moment, but then the camera on the phone came on. Data began to stream across the screen. As she moved the camera, different parts of the lobby were overlaid with almost a rough sketch of the bombing. The Question moved over next to her and watched.

"It's a little crude at this point,' Clive explained. "But once we finish with the digital markers it will be much sharper with more detail. It's an enhanced reality."

"Fascinating." The Question said. Helena handed the phone to him and then turned her attention back to the two young men. She was not pleased.

"So this tour, what else is on it?' She asked.

Clive and Steffen looked at each other. Steffen spoke up.

"Well, um, it's called the Gotham Mayhem tour,' he said. "It will include about twenty sites where the Joker and others committed their most spectacular crimes. The higher body counts are what are customers are looking for."

"Yes, we'll overlay their figures and data about the sites. It's really enhanced reality at it's best,' Clive added.

"Enhanced reality." The words hissed from Helena's lips. She had been on the scene of some of those 'spectacular crimes' as the two men put it. She'd smelled the death and saw the destruction. That these two were going to make a profit off it made her sick to her stomach. "You want enhanced reality, is that it? I'll give you some enhanced reality!"

She grabbed the two of them and jerked them hard. She pushed them towards the still damaged part of the lobby. They stumbled and fell to their knees and she held them there.

"See that dark, almost black stain you're kneeling over?" She whispered in their ears. "That's blood, real actual blood. Here, let me 'enhance' it for you."

She pressed their faces even closer, so they were millimeters away from the floor.

"Real people died here, you twits! Families were devastated and ruined because two murderers blew up a bomb! People were ripped apart and so were lives and you want to enhance that for paying customers? I should make you feel what those victims felt!"

"Huntress!"

The Question called out her name and it took a moment, but she let the two young men go. They scrambled in fear away from her.

"Take your shit and go before I change my mind,' Helena growled at them. "Stick to drunken celebrities!"

Clive and Steffen grabbed their backpacks and starting running. They jumped in their car and raced away.

* * *

San Diego – Late

Linus Kincaid was now rich and famous. He also had a secret. He hated Jack Cutter and was beginning to believe the best thing that had happened was Cutter killing himself. Over the years this dislike of Cutter had grown into an all consuming hatred of the man. Linus was the genius that had made it all possible, yet even as the money poured in and he became fabulously wealthy the only thing any interviewer wanted to ask him about was Cutter. Linus was the man behind the curtain pulling the strings, but no one wanted to know about him, just the image on the screen. Up until he'd assumed Cutter's identity, he had only really understood being rich. Being famous was a revelation to him and he liked it very much. He now understood what so many before him had discovered, what was the point of being rich if no one knew who you were? Do young women want to sleep with George Clooney because he's rich or famous? Does Paris Hilton get paid two hundred grand to show up at a party because she's rich or because she's famous? Does Tommy Hilfiger open up the swag room to Jay-Z because he's rich or because he's famous?

Famous, it is definitely because they are famous.

Oh, yes, Mort the local millionaire that owns the shopping center might be sleeping with some beautiful young woman, but he's paying for it, rest assured. It's also a pretty good assumption that no one was paying the president of Whammo to come to their parties or opening the swag room for the guy that created the felt tipped pen. They were rich, but not famous and that meant they had to pay for it.

It's the beauty of being famous. The more famous you are the more free stuff you get. Women and men want to be with you because you're famous. Clubs and stores want to be associated with you because you're famous. People want to give you all sorts of stuff because you're famous.

Being rich is wonderful, but it's not as good as being rich and famous. Linus understood this now. Fuck Cutter, Linus was going to be a better version in the long run.


	8. Chapter 8

8

Gotham – 2AM

A commercial hawking gold as the answer to some apparent catastrophe in waiting came to a close and the On The Air sign lit up in the darkened studio. The host took another hit off his cigarette and then flipped his mike on.

"We're back on Radio Midnight,' he began. "We've been having another lively discussion tonight and I wanted to take a moment to thank you the listeners for that. I think we're all groping for answers here, trying to make sense out of what's been happening. The bombings have continued and seemed to be spreading. I reiterate how much I condemn this violence, but again I can't let it stop me from asking questions. To just write it all off as copycats inspired by the tapes and the first bombing is too easy, too superficial in my mind."

He paused, taking another long drag on the cigarette and a sip of his coffee.

"It's sort of gone out of fashion these days to look beyond the surface consciousness of the now, as opposed to the depths of historical time. That's something I hear in the Tapes, a recognition that it seems like the only time people want to bring up the past is to use it or parts of it, even distorted parts of it to bolster their point in the now. It's either that or they refer to the past as some golden time, some Shangri-La or Eden we're lost today and need to return to. I don't believe that, it only takes a little digging to see that the past had it's problems, some of them much worse than today, but I do think it points to something we all should look at."

Again he paused, taking another hit of the cigarette while checking the levels on the board.

"The idea of depth versus superficiality is something that's been around since the ancient Greeks. Every culture has wrestled with this idea and bemoaned how the present seems to be so superficial. Maybe it's just that I'm getting older, but I see this in our present society. We're becoming a world of reality television. It's hard to find when this happened or what the nadir of it was, as new examples keep popping up all the time. I'd like to give you one example of when I think there was a change in what the message was. It was a show called the Simple Life, starring Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie."

The host took a drink of his coffee and put his cigarette out.

"I imagine when they came up with this show they were thinking of a real life Lucy and Ethel working on the chocolate factory assembling line, something like that, but the message of the show was something completely different. Each week these two rich, spoiled, vapid twits would go out and supposedly attempt to do 'ordinary' people's jobs."

The host fired another cigarette. In front of him the phone lines were lit up, blinking as callers waited their turn.

"One especially repugnant episode had them supposedly trying to work in a fast food restaurant. Now fast food has been comedy fodder for years, but the message of this episode was different. As these two giggle and half ass their way through part of a workday the joke wasn't on them, but the people that actually worked at the restaurant. The audience knew these two don't care and were leaving at the end of the episode. The woman who was the actual assistant manager and had to put up with these two wasn't leaving; she'd be back the next day. She's a single mother working a crappy job to support herself and her kids, but by the end of the episode you realize the joke was on her. She's the sucker that had to do this for a living."

The host took a drag of the cigarette.

"The two are back in the limo at the end of the episode and off to another staged and filmed adventure. The single mom wasn't going anywhere. This was sort of an archetype for the whole show. These two take a brief pause from their 'fabulous' lives to play at being 'ordinary' people. What makes this show so vile to me is that with a wink it's basically saying the jokes on you and me, the 'ordinary' people that have to work to pay their bills or go to school to try and get the training for a better job. Hard working decent people were the suckers as far as the show was concerned. The two spoiled twits don't even really attempt to do the jobs. The joke was on us, you and me."

The host paused.

"What we got after this show was more of these two twits friends, like Kim Kardashian. She's famous for a sex tape, that's it. It's not even that good of a sex tape, yet somehow that was enough to make her someone we're supposed to pay attention to. Kim Kardashian barely graduated high school and Paris Hilton has a GED, they had no training or skills, yet they are billed as 'designers' for their crappy line of products they push on their infomercial disguised as a reality show. They are the definition of shallow and superficial, yet celebrated. Again the joke was on us, the regular people that don't have fabulous lives or rich parents to indulge us. The single mother who was working at a fast food restaurant to support herself and her kids and barely making it, the joke was on her."

The host went silent and took another drag off his cigarette.

"If you went by the media today, you would think the only kind of work people do was being cowboys. The few instances you see people working are when they are trying to sell trucks or boots. In the superficial world the media presents, everyone has plenty of time to hang out in coffee shops in the middle of the day and sit in a bar every night of the week drinking and exchanging witty comments with their pals. To tell you what they think of working people I think the perfect example is a commercial featuring a mechanic who's dirty and working under the hood of a car. The tag line is 'you earned it' and the product is Busch beer. Busch, the flagship of cheap beer and 'you earned it' for fixing someone's car and providing them with transportation. Meanwhile twits, famous for nothing are shown drinking Kristal. They're not even hiding it anymore, they're just coming right out and saying it to our faces, you and I, we're the suckers."

The host leaned back and let this sink in, before returning to the microphone.

"Enough of me ranting, this is supposed to be a conversation so I want to hear what you have to say. Let's open up the lines and take some calls."

* * *

A Ship at Sea – 8 years ago

The Atlantic waters were choppy. The gray clouds hung ominously low as if at any moment the rain would become too much for them to bear. Cutter stood at the railing of the tramp steamer looking out into the coming storm. He had been reluctant to sign the contract, but finally was persuaded it would be the best for everyone. The hospital and doctor bills were paid in full, so that was at least something he could feel good about.

Since Eleanor's death there hadn't been much to feel good about. In some strange way it had been such an isolating event happening when it did. The world was mourning over one of those major events in history, yet within that was Cutter's own private mourning. His weren't the shared memories of that day or the weeks that followed like everyone else. His were singular, tied to one person far away from the great stage.

Perhaps they were all correct, this was a chance to get away and find some peace with it all. He was still a relatively young man and before the end she had made him promise to try and move on. That was easier than it sounded, but he was going to try. This trip to Europe was a first step. He planned on seeing all the sights they'd talked about but never got the chance to see. Maybe just the change of scenery would do him some good, or at least that's what everyone said.

The first drops of rain came, cold against his skin. The boat began to rise and fall more noticeably as the storm moved in. Turning up his collar, Cutter kept looking ahead into the seemingly endless horizon.

* * *

Mall of America – One Week Ago

Situated on the former site of a sports stadium in Bloomington, Minnesota and taking up almost 100 acres is a consumer's wet dream, the shopping mall to end all shopping malls. 530 stores on three levels for everyone to buy things fill the massive structure. Indoor theme parks, aquariums and exhibitions all under the same roof as all those stores making almost a community onto itself where every possible need anyone could have is met, for a price.

You won't find your dollar stores or discount warehouses here. Downscale is hardly what they want. Businesses and marketers figured out some time ago that wealthy consumers are the most attractive marketing targets. Appealing to these upper class consumers has a ripple effect that spreads down the socio-economic ladder and become the sort of gold standard for all consumers. Those that aren't fortunate enough to be in the upper class can purchase something new that will give them the illusion they are apart of it. Purchasing these expensive items is supposed to signal an improvement in one's social status.

The Mall was set up to feed that need and illusion.

Security belied the image most had of mall cops. This was a little fiefdom onto itself and they took the job very seriously. Get caught taking a picture or video of something they don't want you to and you're arrested, fingerprinted, photographed and banded from every setting foot inside again. There are no appeals, no trials, no defense, it's their world and you're not welcome anymore in it. That's the little secret about malls; no matter how big they are they are private property. That's why they can get away with stopping the buses from the poorer parts of town from turning in to drop off their passengers. It's a subtle way of discouraging the less ideal consumers from visiting.

As the rollercoaster raced through it's endless loop again, no one noticed the two young people sitting in the fourth car from the front. The screams of the others added to the walla of sound in the mall made it impossible to hear what the two were saying over and over.

"I'm not a number. I'm not a number. I'm not a number."

Later it would be reported that they both used to work at the mall. One had been a clerk at the Gap while the other had been a fragrance demonstrator at Nordstroms. Their neighbors would say they were quiet and friendly, but kept to themselves mostly. There would be vague references to them having a difficult time financially. It would be reported that both had huge college loans debt having recently graduated, but not able to find work in their fields. A copy of the Cutter Tapes would be found on their laptop and the conclusions about a motive would be drawn. No further investigation into the why would be done.

Security footage plus cell phone cameras from other patrons would capture the moment. Just as the rollercoaster reached the summit of the highest peak, the two set off the bomb. They were dead immediately, but the explosion and the damage continued. The cars were wrenched off the tracks and plummeted towards the first floor. The scaffolding of the rollercoaster swayed and then buckled. The sound of metal involuntarily twisting and collapsing filled the main concourse. Panic set in as the illusionary happy place turned into something out of a horror movie.

The mall would close for a week and then reopen with a brief ceremony and the laying of flowers for the victims. Business as usual would be the theme of the following days. Security was tight and anyone with a backpack or that tried to add to the memorial with flowers or stuffed animals of their own would be discouraged by the staff.

* * *

New York – 7 years ago

The television studio was a buzz of activity. Linus Kincaid was doing his first major interview. It was only one of the cable financial channels and at most had an audience of a few million, but he saw it as another step for him into the conscious of the popular culture. He was a success and wealthy, it was only a matter of time before he was famous too. The people in the industry had scoffed at first but now they were taking notice of his success. This was further validation of that.

The interviewer was a lovely young woman in a smart, tailored suit named Linda Maxwell. As they came back from commercial she smiled on cue as the signal was given they were back on the air.

"Welcome back, I'm Linda Maxwell with Eye on Entrepreneurs. My guessed today is Linus Kincaid of Fifth World. Most of you already know of their fabulous success with the Cutter21 brand ad we're hoping Mr. Kincaid will give us some insight into the genius behind the curtain."

"Thank you, Linda, you're too kind,' Linus replied with a smile.

"So Linus, can you tell us what makes Fifth World such a groundbreaking business?"

Linus' smile got just a little bigger as she lobed the softball question to him. He had always considered himself the smartest person in the room and now he could show it on national TV.

"That's an interesting question, Linda,' Linus replied. "Groundbreaking might be a little simplistic, but what I and my team at Fifth World are trying to do is really the next evolution in business."

"How so?"

"The old paradigm of business was that it's success was based on making things, products,' Linus explained. "The bigger the business, the bigger the company and actually making things were really important. Oh, bolstering your brand was considered important, but not as much as producing actual produces. You could see the big companies boasting about how many plants they had and how many people they employed as a sign of how successful they were. Detroit was the Motor-City because of the big car companies and how many people worked in the industry. What's now the Rust Belt used to be big Steel and so on and so on."

"That did seem to work Linus,' Linda pointed out. "Those companies provided jobs and created a thriving middle class that boomed after World War 2."

"Absolutely,' Simone said in agreement. "But the world changes, Linda. We've seen in the last twenty years an astronomical growth in the wealth and cultural influence of multinational corporations. As this has happened, a seemingly innocuous idea began to develop among the management theorists. In about the mid-1980s the idea began to gain traction that a successful corporation should primarily produce brands as opposed to products."

"So actually making things wasn't as important? Am I following you correctly, Linus?" Linda asked.

"Yes,' Linus replied with a smile. "Making and producing goods or products were only an incidental part of the operation. Those trade agreements that got pushed through Congress liberalized manufacturing and along with labor law reform allowed companies to have their products made by contractors, most of who were overseas. You could cut your labor cuts and overhead by shipping it all overseas to be made. The focus became image, Brand not producing things. There are always some countries out there willing to race the others towards the bottom to entice business. Just look around you, or even what you're wearing. Those Nike shoes were do you think they were made? What makes them different from a hundred other shoes? The brand does. That smart phone you've got in your purse and you see someone nowadays made everywhere far away from the company that sells them. People aren't workers anymore, they're consumers."

"So it's all about the marketing?" Linda asked.

"Exactly. The real work lay not in manufacturing but in marketing. This proved enormously successful as companies competed in a race towards weightlessness; whoever owns the least has the fewest employees on the payroll and products the most, powerful images, as opposed to products, wins the race." Linus said. "Many of today's best known manufacturers no longer product products and advertise them, but rather buy products and 'brand' them, these companies are forever on the prowl for creative new ways to build and strengthen their brand images. At Fifth World we've just gotten their first and done it the best. We don't employ thousands of workers or own any factories. We create and market the Brand. We are truly weightless and thus the winner of the global race."

* * *

Gotham

Jeff Christie is the sort of fellow you almost automatically like when you meet him. Likable, jovial, quick witted and sharp were words often associated with him. He'd dropped out of college after only a year and got a job in radio. He'd been a DJ for several stations and tried his hand at the talk format, but never really had the success he wanted. At 40 he was starting to think he'd missed his chance, but then an old friend called.

The Big One, Gotham's flagship talk station had been purchased by one of the large radio conglomerates and they were looking to replace the afternoon drive time host. The man had been popular, but got into some trouble with drinking and gambling. Jeff's friend was the new programming director. He was returning a favor and while nothing was promised; if Jeff did well the job would be his.

Jeff instinctively knew this was his chance. If he succeeded, he would be syndicated all over the country. Few people realize when their moment is, but Jeff did. The only problem was the format of the show. It was news/talk and the previous host had been big into politics. While Jeff had his own views on it, he needed to set himself apart from all the rest. At heart he considered himself an entertainer, not a newsman. What an entertainer needs is a hook, something to hang their hat on.

The bombings seemed like a Godsend to Jeff. While he hadn't been in the military, he was actually 4F; he'd always done his part to support the troops. The bombings played into the perfectly. One bombing is a tragedy, two bombings is a conspiracy. The city and country were already on edge about terrorists and it didn't matter if they were from overseas or homegrown, the threat was the same. The entertainer in Jeff saw his hook and he was going to ride it as far as it would take him. The hook was to play on emotion, not facts. People wanted opinions, straightforward opinions they could easily understand and regurgitate later when someone asked their opinion. Jeff was going to provide them with those opinions and he certainly wasn't going to let facts get in the way.

As he sat in the studio waiting to go on, he had to admit he was relieved the webcam was out. Later, if this worked, he could say he always knew it and had been confident the whole time. The truth was he was scared and very nervous. His plain white shirt was soaked with sweat. He knew this was the defining moment in his life. If he failed today, he would never get another chance and be resigned to local radio forever.

The producer gave him the signal and counted him down, five, four, three, two, one… The On Air light came on. The opening music came crashing through his headphones and for a moment he was too stunned to react. The producer frantically pointing at him to speak finally pulled him out of it. Licking his lips, Jeff leaned into the microphone.

"My fellow Americans, welcome to the Jeff Christie show. Things are going to be a little different from the previous host and I want you to stay with me on this. There won't be any guests, just you and me having a conversation. I'm pretty much like you, a regular, ordinary working stiff trying to make a living. The thing is, I'm worried, folks, I'm worried for our country."

He shifted in his seat, getting comfortable.

"I'm not talking about the politics, although some of the people in Washington do make me scratch me head now and then. It's like they've forgotten what real Americans care about anymore. I could rail all day against them, but they're not listening, you are. I want to talk to you, as one American to another, about what's going on right now. Yes, you've all heard about the bombings and while the authorities are telling us they are just random, I have to wonder. How about you? Has it occurred to you they might be connected? These tapes, the Cutter tapes they're calling them, we don't know who made them and is behind all this. Whoever it is or they are, they sound like a rather sinister character to me. How do we know these bombings are part of their plan?"

Jeff paused, letting this sink in.

"Hasn't recent history shown us that there are groups hiding among us just waiting for their chance? Terrorist sleeper cells have been uncovered in several states, luckily before they were able to put into practice their deadly plans. We've been lucky up to this point, but maybe our lucks run out. It's something to think about and I'll be back right after these messages."

Jeff sent it to commercial and sat back with a smile on his face. The producer gave him a thumb's up and Jeff returned it. He was off to a good start.

* * *

The Gotham – The Batcave

The screen in front of Bruce was divided into two images. On one was the map with all the locations of the bombs marked on it and on the other was a painting, _A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by _Georges-Pierre Seurat. It was very late and Bruce was tired. His eyes burned with exhaustion, yet he pressed on. Patterns, they had been obsessing him. He still hadn't figured out the pattern of the bombings. He'd come at the problem from just about every angle he could think of, yet still nothing. He finally closed his eyes, giving them a rest as he let his mind wander.

The sound of footsteps alerted him to someone entering the cave. They were very familiar, Alfred.

"It's late, Master Bruce and you have a long day ahead of you,' Alfred said.

"Yes, I know, but I still have work to do,' Bruce replied.

Alfred came up and stood beside him looking at the screens.

"I take it you've had no luck on finding the pattern,' Alfred asked.

"No,' Bruce admitted.

"So you decided to add to you art collection? A Seurat would go nicely in the den."

This actually brought a smile to Bruce's face. Alfred had always known how to lighten the mood.

"Sorry, old friend, just looking this time,' Bruce replied. "What interests me is the technique."

"**Pointillism,' **Alfred replied

"Yes, small, distinct dots of pure color applied in patterns to form an image,' Bruce continued. "I've run out of other ideas, but it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I've been too close."

"Like standing close to the painting,' Alfred suggested. "Up close you only see the dots."

"But as you move back, the pattern becomes clearer,' Bruce said, finishing the idea.

"And has it become clearer,' Alfred asked.

"No."

"May I make a suggestion, Master Bruce?"

"Yes, of course."

"Something Miss Kyle said on the way back from the cemetery stuck with me,' Alfred began. Bruce gave him a look. "It's not that big a car, sir."

"All right, go on,' Bruce replied.

"She asked what if there wasn't a pattern,' Alfred said.

"There's always a pattern, Alfred, you just have to find it," Bruce immediately replied.

"Yes, I'm sure you're right, Master Bruce, but what if there isn't? The human eye has developed in such a way to find patterns even where there aren't."

"If there isn't, then where does that leave us, old friend,' Bruce asked.

"Goethe, sir,' Alfred replied.

"Excuse me?"

"Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the writer,' Alfred explained.

"I'm familiar with Goethe, Alfred, I'm just not seeing the connection,' Bruce replied.

"Something about this business reminded me of him, Master Bruce,' Alfred continued. "As a schoolboy we read his _The Sorrows of Young Werther_. My classmates and I were quite taken by it. We even started to dress like the title character for awhile."

"Now that I would have liked to see,' Bruce offered.

"As I said, we were young, sir,' Alfred replied with a smile. "What I most remember was that our instructor sat us all down one day to talk to us. It seems we weren't the first to be influenced by the book in that way. Napoleon carried a copy of the book with him on his campaign in Egypt. It also started the phenomenon known as the "Werther-Fieber" or "Werther Fever". This manifested itself in much the way it had with us, where young men all over Europe started dressing like the title character. It also had a different effect, master Bruce. It reputedly also led to some of the first known examples of copycat suicide."

"Copycat suicide?"

"Yes, at the end of the novel, the hero commits suicide,' Alfred explained. "It seemed many young, impressionable men followed his romantic example."

"I'm familiar with the concept, Alfred,' Bruce stated. "The well-known suicide serves as a model, in the absence of protective factors, for the next suicide. This is referred to as suicide contagion. They occasionally spread through a school system, through a community, or in terms of a celebrity suicide wave, nationally. This is called a suicide cluster. Suicide clusters are caused by the social learning of suicide related behaviors, or "copycat suicides". Point clusters are clusters of suicides in both time and space, and have been linked to direct social learning from nearby individuals. Mass clusters are clusters of suicides in time but not space, and have been linked to the broadcasting of information concerning celebrity suicides via the mass media. Examples of celebrities whose suicides have inspired suicide clusters include the Japanese musicians Yukiko Okada and Hide and Marilyn Monroe, whose death was followed by an increase of 200 more suicides than average for that August month."

"Yes, that is all correct, Master Bruce,' Alfred replied. 'There is a link, but not a pattern to it, per say. Perhaps that is what you are dealing with in this case."

"That would make some sense,' Bruce admitted. He turned back to the map. "That would also mean there is no way to predict or stop this."

"It's just another theory, sir,' Alfred said.

"A rather disturbing theory that fits the facts, Alfred."

"Then if I may suggest one more thing, Master Bruce?"

"Yes, of course."

"You need rest,' Alfred said. "I also have heard you continually insist Miss Kyle get rest and I think you should follow that example."

* * *

San Pedro – Now

She stood in front of the hotel room mirror looking at her reflection and repeating the name over and over.

"Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart. Trish Hart, Trish Hart, Trish Hart …"

It was a name. It meant nothing to her. It was a random choice made by the forger she'd bought her papers off of. Now though, she had to memorize it, make it her own. Most people grow up with their name and it's tied to family and their past. Trish Hart was tied to nothing; it was just the name she was using.

Imagine if tomorrow you had to change your name to a new random name and only answer to that name. Even women that marry and change their last names have some time to get used to the idea. They also have context for it and what it means to them. Imagine if Doris Palmer was your new name. How long would it take for you to remember to answer to it? How long would it take when someone calls out Doris for you to turn? How long would it take to not turn when someone called out your old name?

Trish was a blank slate except for the particle memories of others she had. She faced the daunting task of constructing a personality from scratch, on the fly. She could make new memories, as everything that happened since she woke up in that hotel room she remembered. What she didn't have were those developmental memories and experiences we all have that make us who where are today. The fragmented memories had helped her this far, but increasingly they seemed at war with each other as well as the new memories that were being made. If she didn't want to be lost or go crazy, Trish had to figure out how to create who she was.

It started with a name, Trish Hart.

* * *

New York City

Zuccotti Park, formerly called Liberty Plaza Park, had been where their idealism blossomed and where it ran up against reality. They had traveled to be a part of something that seemed almost too right and true, noble even. They took the message to heart; we're the 99%. The numbers seemed inescapable, unless you made more than 300 thousand dollars a year; you were part of the 99%. If you were going to stand up for anything, this seemed like a perfect cause to pin your hopes and dreams on, a peaceful, non-violent protest to bring the inequality to the attention of the world.

It was over now for the most part, ended by the police that moved in and physically moved them out and didn't allow them to return even though the courts said they could. Idealism came face to face with reality and as always seems to happen, idealism lost.

As the months went by other information painted a different picture then they believed they had been a part of. Some of it confirmed what they believed but other pieces made them question whether any of it was really what it was supposed to be.

- U.S. Government documents which revealed that the FBI and DHS had monitored Occupy Wall Street through its Joint Terrorism Task Force, despite labeling it a peaceful movement. The crackdown on protesters was coordinated with the big banks on Wall Street. The FBI used counterterrorism agents to investigate the movement.

- Organizers retained New York-based public relations agency Workhorse, which had successfully engineered social marketing campaigns for Saks Fifth Avenue and Mercedes Benz. Ensuing media awareness helped inspire Occupy protests and movements around the world and resulted in the campaign received the Platinum Award from PR industry publication PRNews, which noted, "the results, obviously, have been spectacular. There's hardly a newspaper, Internet or broadcast media outlet that hasn't covered OWS."

It was all a marketing gimmick. They thought it was a grassroots movement, but like the Tea Party there was nothing grassroots about it. A manufactured movement from the beginning marketed and advertised like cars or jewelry. They clung to the belief that however it started why they were there was still true. It's just that as the days went on Occupy just became like all the other slogans and the very companies they were protesting against incorporated it into their ads.

Sometimes disillusionment leads to apathy, but sometimes it leads to anger. Anger has a way of leading to violence. When the bomb went off it shattered windows up and down the block. Many were killed or injured. There was a rush to explain why. The bombers had left a note, but it only said, "We're not a number."

* * *

San Diego – 7 years ago

Fifth World had gone public almost a year ago and its initial offering had gone spectacularly. While Linus still controlled a slim majority of the stock, others had heavily invested in the company. A board of directors had been established, most of who were friendly towards what Linus was doing. As long as the money was rolling in the directors and the largest investors stayed out of his way.

It was for this reason he didn't attend the quarterly meeting of the board and the largest shareholders. His A.I. Oz of course was there to answer any questions they might have, but Linus felt he had better things to do with his time. As far as most of the board members and investors were concerned, he was the golden boy that made it rain. That didn't mean they didn't have any concerns, they did. For the most part though, they were small tweaks or questions that Oz could easily answer, thus leaving Linus to continue making them money.

Simone always attended, but rarely spoke. While she was the second largest investor in Fifth World, she had declined all titles and offers of being on the board. She preferred to let the money managers she and Julian hired deal with the business. She came to these meetings just to listen and take the temperature of the others. The actual percentage of how much stock she owned was difficult for most to figure, as she and Julian had spread it out over an array of trusts, funds and corporations they controlled.

Simone didn't believe it was fate or destiny that got her to this point. It was just a series of random and not so random events. Her father, Julian had been in Saigon during the war. His business tended to cater to unusual tastes. A man like him was always valuable to both sides when official channels can't be used. He'd escaped just before the fall and moved to Thailand. That was where Simone grew up. She had been a prostitute and learned early how the world worked. The events that started her on the path she was now on were rather simple, she met a man, a rather special man.

He was broken, but once had been a great man. Events conspired to make him go on the run. Simone and Julian had joined him, considering it something of adventure. A lot of people wanted to kill the man. Somewhere in their travels Simone realized she was probably in love with him. With all those people trying to kill him, Julian dove back into a game he was very familiar with. He played each side against the other until the winning side became apparent. He made a deal at that point. Part of that deal was that another man, an agent but now a liability had to be eliminated. Simone had no qualms about killing him and in exchange their past was wiped clean and they began new lives.

It was during that adventure she met a young politician in Paris, Robert Bisset. He was a bit of a rising star in his party and came from old money. He fell in love with Simone and asked her to marry him. She accepted. After a small mistake, Simone put her past behind her and moved on with her life. The original man was lost to her, but a new world had opened up. After Robert and his parents' tragic accident she suddenly found herself a rather wealthy young woman. She continued to work as a paid assassin but more and more her focus was on business.

Lessons learned early in her former life served her well in this new world. She found that as much as they like to pretend they're not, the rich and powerful are just like everyone else with the same faults and vanities, just on a larger scale. She watched and listened, always unfailingly polite and charming, yet gathering information on how this world really worked.

Linus Kinkaid had a brilliant idea. It had been Julian that saw it first, but Simone had studied and watched until she understood it too. Personally she didn't like Linus. He was in love with her, she knew, but when she compared him to the man she had fallen in love with he was always lacking. In her mind he had one brilliant idea and assumed that meant all his ideas were brilliant. The more success he had the more this idea was reinforced. It would have been nothing to her, except if it started to cost her money. He was the golden goose that laid the eggs, but she wouldn't allow him to screw that up.

Simone had watched Linus on the financial show. He came across as pompous and arrogant. Using Oz, Simone found out that Linus planned on doing more of that sort of thing. He wanted to be famous as well as rich. Given what she knew of him and taking into account his performance on the show Simone believed Linus, as the face of the company was a mistake. Now she just had to get the other board members to agree.

The meeting was almost over and Oz was taking questions.

"I have a question."

Everyone turned in surprise to Simone. She never voiced any opinion at these things so this was something to take notice of.

"Yes, Mrs. Bisset?" Oz's said in his computerized voice.

"Fifth World is based on likeability, is it not?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Cutter's numbers are the highest in this regards, aren't they?"

"Yes, Mrs. Bisset."

"What are the numbers on Linus' appearance?" Simone asked. "What are the numbers on his Q rating and likeability?"

Everyone turned from Simone to the screen to hear the answer.

"We only have preliminary data at this point, Mrs. Bisset,' Oz offered.

"All right, what does the preliminary data show?" She asked, pressing the issue.

Oz ran through a series of numbers and figures rather fast. He was primarily Linus' brainchild and controller. Linus had programmed Oz and wrote into the code a bias towards Linus. The A.I. couldn't lie, but it did understand what the numbers would mean to Linus.

"Oz, that was very impressive,' Simone softly said. "Now for those of us that don't understand these things, could you answer a simple question?"

"Of course, Mrs. Bisset."

"Is Linus likeable or unlikeable?"

There was a pause from the A.I."

"Oz?"

"Unlikeable,' Oz replied. "These are preliminary numbers though, Mrs. Bisset."

"In the wake of Linus' appearance, what did the stock do?" Simone continued.

"It dropped ten points, but it has since recovered,' Oz replied.

"Given the information you have at hand, which does the public, the consumers prefer, Linus or Mr. Cutter?"

"Mr. Cutter."

"Thank you, Oz."

Simone turned to the other board members. She gave them a smile that could be mistaken for nervousness or shyness. It always worked to get people on her side. The fact that she was a gorgeous young woman helped too.

"You're the board and I'm sure no far more about these things than I do," she began. "Just given the numbers, though, it seems like for the best interests of the company, Linus should leave being the spokesman to Mr. Cutter to me. He's the genius behind the current, if you will, but perhaps he should stay behind the curtain for the foreseeable future. I'm only suggesting this because I believe we are all interested in the same thing, making money, Linus included. Unless his numbers change, I think we should go with his own strategy and promote Mr. Cutter as the face of the corporation. It's about the brand after all, isn't it?"

There were murmurs from the others as they considered this. Simone smiled, knowing that she had planted the seed and it would take root. Linus was important to the future success of the company just as Mr. Cutter was, but letting either of them become too important wasn't in her interests.

"As I said, it's just my opinion but things have been working, why change them?" Simone added. "But you all know far more than me about these things so I'll leave it in your capable hands. Thank you for listening."

She stood up and the others followed. Simone shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with each member, making sure to use their names. As she exited the room, she knew she had accomplished her goal. The board, not her would break the news to Linus that he was out as spokesman for the company. It was a small thing, but it shifted the balance of power slightly away from him and towards Simone. A time would come in the future when that shift would eventually be larger and that was what Simone was after, the power.


End file.
